


Shadowstalker

by Mipeltaja



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, F/F, Fix-It of Sorts, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Slow Build, peripheral lesbians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:48:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24977137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mipeltaja/pseuds/Mipeltaja
Summary: Tyrathan is well versed in death in its various forms, but he has much to learn about what comes after.
Relationships: Tyrathan Khort/Vol'jin
Comments: 60
Kudos: 69





	1. Prologue

The sky above Mount Neverest was a bright, clear blue. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen, and birds were a rare sight so high in the mountains to begin with. It was the very picture of serenity, and Tyrathan was steadily growing sick of the sight of it.

Laid as he was in his pandaren-made cot, too injured to even sit up under his own power, he had little to do besides stare out the window. Unfortunately, at such a low angle, all he could see was the empty sky, and after just one morning of it, he would have welcomed a storm if it meant having something new to look at.

From the moment he’d woken up here after his latest brush with death - if indeed a spear through the belly could be called a “brush” - he had known the path to recovery would be long and difficult, and he had accepted it. He’d gone through it before, after all. Or so he’d thought; it had taken a couple of hours of monotony for the grim reality of his circumstances to sink in. After Serpent’s Heart, he’d been up and moving around on crutches after a day or two, but a wound clear through his middle made being even remotely upright an impossibility, and likely would for a good while.

And yet, in his boredom Tyrathan was also a tiny bit grateful for the severity of his injury - and at least as ashamed for feeling that way. The reason being that it allowed him to put off something he now knew he couldn’t keep avoiding: returning home. He owed his family the truth, or at least certain parts of the truth, but that didn’t make the prospect of coming back from the dead pleasant. The most selfish parts of him still wished he could avoid it, stay a ghost forever, but the part of him that knew right from wrong wouldn’t allow it.

The sound of the door creaking open jolted Tyrathan back to the present. He turned his head to see Vol’jin enter the room, carrying a woven basket under one arm. 

The troll made a low sound of surprise. “I didn’t know you’d be awake,” Vol’jin said. “How you be feeling?”

Tyrathan tried to push himself up to his elbows, but succeeded only in sending a sharp stab of pain radiating outward from his wound. He fell back on his pillows and gestured at his middle with a weak smile. “Like I’ve been trampled by a wild boar,” he said. “Could be worse, all things considered.”

Vol’jin closed the door and crossed the room, setting his basket down at the foot of the bed. He worked an arm under Tyrathan’s shoulders and lifted his upper body off the bed, supporting the human’s weight on one arm while the other arranged pillows under him to prop him up.

“Thanks,” said Tyrathan as he relaxed against them, glad to be a little closer to eye level with the troll.

Vol’jin picked up his basket again, and now that he wasn’t quite so horizontal, Tyrathan could see it contained a set of clean robes folded neatly atop fresh bedding.

“Don’t tell me Lord Taran Zhu has you on laundry duty after everything.”

Vol’jin shrugged. “Everybody be pulling their weight,” he said. “Besides, it be my turn, eh?”

Tyrathan gave a short laugh. “I suppose that’s true.”

Vol’jin flashed him a grin and turned to put the clean laundry away, and it occurred to Tyrathan that although it hadn’t been all that long since their roles had been reversed, it felt like a lifetime for how much their relationship had changed. When Tyrathan had been assigned to care for Vol’jin, he had gritted his teeth through all of it, and it had been clear to see that the troll hadn’t liked the arrangement any better than he had. Now, though, on the other side of everything, Vol’jin performed the duty almost cheerfully, and Tyrathan suspected he might even have volunteered for it - although it _was_ equally plausible that Taran Zhu had ordered it for the sake of balance.

And speaking of things Vol’jin was willing to do, something was nagging at Tyrathan. “Vol’jin,” he said carefully.

The troll made a small sound of acknowledgement.

“About what happened after the battle… What did you do? How is it that I still live?”

Vol’jin paused in his task, but did not answer. He didn’t even turn around.

“I felt death upon me,” Tyrathan pressed. “And I don’t mean like when I chose to let the man I used to be die. The actual chill of death, Vol’jin, deep in my bones. I should have been beyond saving.”

“You live because Bwonsamdi wills it,” Vol’jin finally said. He drew in a long breath, straightening up a little with it. “What you felt be his grip. Now you been released.”

“Bwonsamdi,” Tyrathan repeated. “One of your troll gods?”

“Loa,” Vol’jin corrected sharply, turning around at last. He regarded Tyrathan for a moment, then sighed and walked over to crouch by the bed, eyes level with Tyrathan’s. “I told you before: secrets be secrets. But this one, you earned the right to know. The loa of death marked you for his own.”

“Am I in danger?”

Vol’jin shook his head. “It ain’t like that. Bwonsamdi be a powerful and dangerous loa, but he don’t kill by his own hand.” He paused. “Not often, leastways. He be the one who collects our dead, and now he be meaning to collect you, too.” He gave Tyrathan a pointed look. “When it be your time, and no sooner.”

Tyrathan nodded. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Vol'jin nodded in turn, and went to collect his basket once more, making to leave. “I got more chores need doing, but I’ll be back after.”

“I look forward to it,” said Tyrathan. He watched the door close behind Vol’jin, and kept studying it for a good while after the sound of the troll’s footsteps had faded into the distance.

That was the other reason why he was almost glad to be bedridden; he did not at all like the idea of parting ways with Vol’jin, and in a perfect world, he imagined he wouldn’t have to. He hadn’t felt so well understood by another person in years, or possibly ever, and had long since accepted that he never would be. But now that he had had a taste of how well he could work with someone, he wasn’t sure he could just go back to not having it.

But they each had their obligations that needed seeing to, and Vol’jin’s were weightier than his. What was there to be done?

-

Vol’jin kept his word. Over the next several days, he visited often. Sometimes in the course of his chores, and sometimes just to kill some time, but always it was a welcome break from the monotony. Not that Vol’jin was the only one; Chen was a frequent caller as well, and had even managed to procure a couple of books written in Common to help Tyrathan while away the time. Lord Taran Zhu visited less often, but even he occasionally found the time to look in on him in person. And so, though he still found being stuck inside the four walls of his cell extremely dull, at least he had the best company he could ask for.

But as all things, it had to come to an end. It seemed to Tyrathan that no sooner had he managed to stand up for the first time than Vol’jin announced he would be returning to his people, as if he'd been waiting for this particular milestone in Tyrathan's recovery. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, the leaving; Tyrathan knew well enough that Vol’jin had always meant to go back to deal with Garrosh, but he had hoped - well, he wasn’t sure what he had been hoping for. A miracle, perhaps. For Garrosh to drop dead of his own accord. Anything to stall the inevitable.

The last time Tyrathan saw Vol’jin, the troll entered his cell not with a laundry basket or a jihui board, but carrying all his weapons and a small travel pack. He stood there silently for a moment, as if to allow the sight of him to sink in.

“So,” said Tyrathan, sitting up with some effort. “This is goodbye.”

Vol’jin nodded. “I ain’t gonna ask you for the arrow for Garrosh now, but I can’t be leaving my tribe waiting any longer.”

“Take one of the ones I made for our last battle,” Tyrathan said, jerking his head towards his quiver, propped against the wall and still holding a few red-shafted arrows. “It’s not exactly what I promised, but I don’t want to hear you were one arrow short because I failed to deliver."

Vol’jin eyed the quiver, but made no move toward it. Instead, he approached the bed.

“There never be enough time,” he said, bending down to pull Tyrathan into an embrace. The troll’s hand found the back of Tyrathan's head, and held him in place as Vol'jin's temple brushed against his. The contact was feather-light, but deliberate. Stray strands of Vol'jin's wild mane tickled at Tyrathan's cheek - and in the blink of an eye, it was over.

Vol’jin took a step back. “You take care of yourself, Tyrathan Khort. Don’t be too eager to meet with Bwonsamdi.”

“You too,” said Tyrathan.

Vol’jin grinned, cocking his head. “I can’t be avoiding it. A shadow hunter walks with the loa.”

Tyrathan huffed a laugh, then gestured at his quiver again. “Really, though: take an arrow. Hell, take all of them! They were made to kill Zandalari; they should more than suffice for an orc. And I’ll sleep better knowing they won’t be going to waste.”

Finally relenting, Vol’jin took the remaining arrows from Tyrathan’s quiver and added them to his. Having done that, he opened the door, nodded one last time, and then he was gone.

Tyrathan lifted a hand to his temple, fingertips just brushing over where the point of contact had been. He was knowledgeable about the way trolls hunted and fought, and even had an inkling about the way they practiced religion, but what Vol'jin had just done, he had never before seen a troll do.

It stood to reason; outside of the battlefield, he had only ever encountered individual trolls that hadn't been outright hostile to him, and even then there had been a healthy amount of mutual suspicion. He'd never been privy to how trolls behaved amongst themselves, and Vol'jin was the first troll he could say he was actually close with, so he didn't know if what had just happened was a standard goodbye between friends, or something else. It had felt intimate, but that was by his human sensibilities. Who knew what it was for a troll.

Tyrathan laid back down with a sigh.

-

At last, Tyrathan too returned home. He spent the entire journey to Stormwind trying to figure out just what he would say when he saw his family again, and managed to compose a passable explanation for why he'd disappeared. The fresh scarring on his belly and back were undeniable proof of the grievous injuries he could claim had kept him away since the Battle of Serpent’s Heart.

He ended up needing none of it, because when he knocked on the door of his home, it was Morelan Vanyst that answered.

If it hadn’t already been his intention to release his wife - and if he was honest, himself - from their ill-fated marriage, the look on her face when he spotted her behind Morelan would have done it. She looked terrified. Almost certainly some of it was just the simple shock of seeing him alive, but there was no doubt in Tyrathan’s mind that first and foremost she was afraid of Tyrathan, and what he might do. Morelan, too, looked spooked. Tyrathan could hardly blame either of them.

One good thing did come from that fear: Morelan was eager to help talk his uncle into allowing Tyrathan leave the family’s service with minimal fuss. Tyrathan did try to make it as clear as he could that this was not a condition for the divorce, and that he would go through with that even if Bolten refused, but wasn’t sure if Morelan believed it. Either way, by the time King Varian called for able bodies to help lay siege to Orgrimmar, Tyrathan was a man with no attachments.

In the end, Tyrathan was not there to witness the final fight against Garrosh. He ended up in a group of Horde and Alliance soldiers left behind above ground as the bulk of the assault force delved into the city’s bowels. Their role was to watch the main forces’ flank and protect their escape route, should it be needed. As it turned out, Garrosh had had no such foresight, and no additional kor’kron materialized. The guard group ended up milling about the city, occasionally exchanging glares over faction lines, but doing little else.

Tyrathan found himself in the Valley of Strength, leaning against the notice board in front of Grommash Hold, idly twirling an arrow between his fingers and growing more bored by the minute as he watched the city gates. He’d been paired up with an orc who, while she did periodically give him a pointed look to remind him he was in her city and she wasn’t happy about it, seemed content to leave him alone otherwise.

The news of Garrosh’s defeat and the appointment of the new Warchief made it above ground before the involved parties did. Horde and Alliance alike received the news with cheers, though Tyrathan noted his side was markedly less elated to hear about Warchief Vol’jin than the Horde and particularly the trolls were. Tyrathan himself was torn. He was sure there was no better choice for the Horde, and he was happy for his friend, but a part of him had hoped to catch Vol'jin alone after it was all done. It would have been difficult enough with the troll leading the rebellion, but Warchief? There was no way Vol’jin would be left alone for even a second, now, not until the last of the Alliance had gone. In fact, Tyrathan realized, with this turn of events, he might never be able to speak with his friend again.

After a quick glance in the direction of his orcish companion to make sure she wasn't paying attention to him, he surreptitiously pushed the arrowhead into one of the wooden posts supporting the noticeboard, as deep as he could force it, and carved the Pandaren symbol of the fireship into it. Vol’jin would be passing this post daily, and would notice it sooner or later. He’d know who had left the mark, and why, but no one else would, even if they recognized the symbol.

He left Orgrimmar with the Alliance forces, having failed to even catch a glimpse of Vol’jin. Had someone asked him what he hoped to gain by leaving a mark of his presence in the city, he wouldn’t have had an answer. 

-

Tyrathan went on with his life, such as it was. On the rare occasion that he saw his ex-wife, he found it harder and harder to think of anything to say. His children had never quite forgiven him for letting them believe he had died, and so they gradually drifted away from him, too, and soon enough Morelan Vanyst fully occupied the role of their father. But then, hadn’t that been the point? To allow his family to have the life he could never have provided for them?

So, Tyrathan went on with his life. Until Broken Shore.

Broken Shore was a nightmare. The battle had been going so well until the Banshee withdrew her forces; after that, the Alliance had been forced to retreat as well, and then the King of Stormwind was dead. 

Tyrathan couldn’t understand what had happened, why Vol’jin would have allowed the Horde to back out at such a crucial moment. As he arranged passage to Kalimdor, Tyrathan recognized the same doubt gnawing at his insides that had plagued him after Serpent’s Heart, and quashed it. Doubt never did him any good: the thing to do was to keep his heading, find a way inside Orgrimmar if he had to, and get answers, find out why.

He arrived just in time to see the funeral pyre assembled. All the leaders of the Horde in attendance, save for one. The body atop the pile of wood was wrapped in shroud, but a single tusk jutted out, painfully familiar in shape, and Tyrathan knew. After that, he could no longer find it in his heart to blame the Horde for retreating. It was a tragedy on both sides, and only the Burning Legion was to blame.

Later, after the ashes had gone cold and the crowd dispersed, Tyrathan thought, traitorously, that he should have been up on that ledge with the Horde. If he’d been there, then perhaps one death could have been avoided, or at least traded for his own. He didn’t know how to pray to troll gods, but just on the off chance he’d be heard, he whispered a request for Bwonsamdi to guide the spirit of his fallen friend to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Silverr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverr) for betaing. All mistakes and stylistic oddities that may remain are mine, though.


	2. Wherein a Bargain Is Struck

It wasn’t long after Vol’jin’s funeral that Tyrathan was contacted by the Unseen Path. He went to them gladly, eager to be of some use. In a sense, it could be said that the promise he had made to Vol’jin, to kill whoever killed the troll, was all that kept Tyrathan going during those long months. It was purely symbolic, of course, because he had no way of knowing who or what exactly had struck the fatal blow. Still, having lost all else that he had been, he gave himself fully to the hunter, and did what he had always done best: kill. Countless demons fell in the Broken Isles with an arrow through their eye or throat, and Tyrathan kept looking for more to end, hoping to make up for the lack of precision with sheer numbers. Eventually, the passage of time and the futility of his vengeance tempered fury into weary sorrow. The grief settled into his bones, a permanent companion in his otherwise solitary life.

A new war broke out. The Unseen Path disbanded, and Tyrathan was left without purpose.

It was pure chance that brought him to Zandalar. The ship had been intended for an expedition to a small uncharted island rich in azerite. Tyrathan had already been on many such expeditions since the war had begun, and found that they agreed with him better than the rigid chains of command of military operations. Unfortunately, the ship had been commandeered last minute to carry supplies to an Alliance outpost in the inhospitable desert of Vol’dun, and the hapless expeditionary crew hadn’t been given a chance to disembark. Captain Fairwind had taken it all in stride, though it was Tyrathan’s impression that the ex-pirate (or so the man claimed to be) didn’t mix well with authority figures, himself.

And so it was that the _Middenwake_ made port in Vol’dun, Zandalar, with a disgruntled Tyrathan Khort aboard. He stood on the deck, taking in the scene while the sailing crew worked to lower the gangplank.

Shatterstone Harbor, as the outpost had been dubbed, had only recently been occupied by the 7th Legion. A half collapsed stone pier led into an old, ruined settlement long abandoned by its original builders and now littered with tents and the occasional Alliance banner. Past what remained of the ancient stonework, there was only sand and rock as far as the eye could see.

“Guess they really did need the supplies, huh?” said Captain Fairwind, coming up behind him. “This place is a dump!”

Tyrathan murmured an assent.

“Well, nothing for it, I’m afraid,” said Fairwind. “We’ll have to spend a day or two here while we unload and get ready to set sail again." He paused, gazing at something past the bow of the ship. "Say, is that a tavern over there?” He pointed to an outdoor seating area that did indeed seem to be the closest thing the harbor had to a tavern, and without waiting for an answer, made for the gangplank. The rest of the expeditionary crew followed him off the ship, scattering around the outpost to look for something to occupy themselves with while they waited.

Tyrathan spotted a stout man wearing Kul Tiras’ colours overseeing the unloading of the ship, and strolled over.

“You’re new,” the Kul Tiran said, looking up from his papers. “Come to enlist?”

“Not if I can help it,” Tyrathan replied. “I was just going to ask if there was any work to be done while I wait.”

“Thought you looked too old to be a recruit,” said the man. “‘Name’s Alfin. I’m the quartermaster here.” He studied Tyrathan for a moment, then nodded to himself. “There’s always work for a sell-sword. Got a standing bounty on trolls; desert’s crawling with ‘em. Gotta show the Zandalari what for, and all that, if you know what I’m saying.”

Tyrathan did know. He’d also heard the trolls out here were all exiles, cast out by the Zandalari empire for various crimes. The way Tyrathan saw it, killing the empire’s unwanted wouldn’t bring the Alliance any closer to winning the war, nor would it be a compelling show of strength to target trolls weakened by hunger and heat. He said none of this to Alfin, though, and just nodded.

“Meat’s always welcome, too, if you can hunt,” Alfin went on, eyeing Tyrathan’s bow.

“What’s out there to hunt?”

“Krolusk, mostly. Big old bastards with sharp teeth and shells like iron, but there’s a lot of them and the meat’s palatable. There’s buzzards along the coast, but there’s also murlocs there, and the birds are skin and bones more often than not. Some hyenas and lizards further inland, too, but that’s a long way to go for food.” Alfin adjusted his helmet. “So realistically, mostly krolusk. Even if they can be a bit of a challenge.”

“That’s fine, said Tyrathan. “I enjoy a challenge.”

After three hours out in the desert and not a single krolusk sighting in that entire time, Tyrathan was beginning to enjoy this particular challenge a lot less. Either the beasts were a lot less common than Alfin had led him to believe, or he’d been pointed in entirely the wrong direction to find them.

What he had found, however, was a pair of new shadows. Two Zandalari exiles had been tailing him for a good half hour, probably thinking they were being very stealthy. To their credit, Tyrathan had only caught a glimpse of them once, when the rock wall he was walking along went too long without a convenient cover, but they weren’t keeping enough of a distance; he’d been able to hear them almost the entire time.

Rounding a large rock, Tyrathan found his chance to be rid of his stalkers in the form of a small alcove in the wall, deep enough to fit him, and high enough that even the Zandalari couldn’t see to the back of it from ground level. He made the climb quickly and pressed himself against the back of the alcove, bow at the ready.

Soon enough, he heard the trolls come to a stop just below his hiding place, audibly confused. Gingerly peering out of the alcove, Tyrathan saw they had passed him. The one walking in front was brandishing a sword that had seen better days, but still looked perfectly lethal. The other one appeared unarmed, but that did not necessarily make him harmless.

Two arrows fired in quick succession - the first one through the spine of the troll in the rear, the second in the eye of his companion when she turned to look - were enough to deal with both of his uninvited companions, who had clearly not been prepared for a real fight. But as the second body fell limp to the ground, Tyrathan felt a strange shift in the air.

“Oho!” laughed a voice by his ear. He whipped around to see nothing but bare rock; there was no room in his cubby for anyone else.

“Here’s somebody I wasn’t expecting to be seeing.” The voice was behind him again, but no longer quite so close.

Tyrathan turned again, this time coming face to face with the speaker. Standing - or rather, hovering - over the two bodies was something that had the general shape of a troll, but was much larger than even the Zandalari and had a skull for a face. Tyrathan nocked another arrow.

“Now don’t be like that,” said the apparition. “You ain’t gonna best old Bwonsamdi with bow and arrow.”

Tyrathan kept his aim. “You haven’t seen what I can do with a bow and arrow.”

Bwonsamdi laughed. “I seen every troll you ever killed, Tyrathan Khort. _And_ the ones you didn’t. You out here looking for Vol’jin, hm?”

Despite the sweltering heat, a chill ran down Tyrathan's spine at the mention of the name. “Vol’jin is dead,” he said, pulling the bowstring a little further.

“That’s right,” said Bwonsamdi, seemingly unconcerned with Tyrathan’s threats and now looming much closer, though Tyrathan hadn’t seen him move. “And what happens to dead trolls? C’mon now, this be an easy one.”

Tyrathan hesitated, lowering his bow. “They go to Bwonsamdi.”

“There you go!”

“In any case, I’m not here for Vol’jin,” said Tyrathan, climbing out of the alcove and walking past Bwonsamdi to retrieve his arrows.

“Oh, I see,” said Bwonsamdi. “Just killin’ time and trolls then, hm?”

“That’s not -”

“Because if you _were_ here to see Vol'jin..." Bwonsamdi interjected, "Well. Maybe that could be arranged."

" _What_?" Tyrathan spun around, only to see Bwonsamdi's grin widen, and he knew he'd walked right into something. “In exchange for what?”

“Ohoo, ain't nothing getting past this one!” Bwonsamdi cackled. “I see why Vol’jin liked you so much. Shame you’re not a troll, or you’d have been a mighty fine shadow hunter.”

Tyrathan maintained eye contact with the loa, but did not speak.

Bwonsamdi clicked his tongue. “Yes, yes, fine. So _impatient_. Here’s what I be wanting from you.” 

The Loa leaned in and laid a bony hand on Tyrathan’s shoulder. In an instant, the bright desert sun gave way to an eerie gloom, and Tyrathan found himself standing before an ancient structure surrounded by a mire, a blood-red moon looming unnaturally large over it. The walls surrounding it were crumbling, but the central building appeared largely unscathed by whatever disaster had ravaged the rest.

“You see, my humble home be having a pest problem.” Bwonsamdi indicated a small group of trolls skulking around the perimeter. To Tyrathan’s eye, they resembled jungle trolls more than Zandalari, but were very pale, with pitch black eyes and white hair - and every last one of them was covered in red war paint.

“Their ‘blood god’ be dead, but they don’t know when to quit poking at old Bwonsamdi. You deliver these souls to me, and we’ll see about getting you an audience with ya old friend Vol’jin.”

Tyrathan studied the scene. He counted six trolls that he could see, and even if there were a few more in hiding, they were all spread out enough that it should be easy to pick off the majority of them before they had time to retaliate. Not to mention, they were armed with spears, which meant that even if they had strong throwing arms - probably, given they were trolls - and impeccable aim - unlikely - each of them would only have one shot at him. The odds were strongly in his favour.

“That’s it?” he finally asked the Loa. It wasn’t his intention to sound conceited, but if Bwonsamdi was as familiar with his work as he claimed to be, he should have known it was not a difficult task.

“I be in a generous mood,” said Bwonsamdi. “And we ain’t got all the time in the world. Besides, I got questions that want answering.”

“Such as?”

Bwonsamdi wagged a finger “Ah-ah, not questions for you, Tyrathan Khort. but I be hoping you just might be finding the answers.” With that, Bwonsamdi removed his hand and the vision of the swamp faded, bringing them back where they’d never left; in the desert sands, standing over two corpses. Bwonsamdi pointed east. “You head that way and you gonna be in Nazmir by nightfall. The Necropolis gonna be easy to find from there. Do what I asked, and come inside to see me.”

He was gone before Tyrathan could accept or decline.

Tyrathan just stood there for a while, looking east, where he imagined he could just see the edge of the desert, and considered the situation. It was obvious he ought to refuse. Any reasonable person would already be heading back to Shatterstone Harbor to get on the first available ship and never return to Zandalar. But if Bwonsamdi was really willing to let him speak to Vol’jin one last time… and what did he have to lose, anyway? If he killed a few strange trolls and got nothing in return, or it turned out to be a trap of some kind, what did it matter? But on the other hand, if he let a chance like this slip through his fingers, he’d wonder about it for the rest of his life. He really only had one choice.

He headed east.

Ironically, he did spot some krolusk as he approached the far edge of Vol’dun. Far too far from Shatterstone Harbor to drag a kill all the way back to the outpost, he chose to give the beasts a wide berth and forged on.

It was barely dusk when he came to the edge of the desert. The dry air of Vol’dun gradually gave way to the humid warmth of the mire, and as Bwonsamdi had promised, the Necropolis was easy to spot, rising up from the shallows where swamp met ocean. He couldn’t see any of the pale trolls yet, so he kept to the cover of the trees and the underbrush as he crept closer, bow at the ready.

At last he spotted a lone troll walking by the stone wall. Her attention seemed focused towards the necropolis, which allowed Tyrathan to get in close enough to make sure that there were no others close by. He took aim and fired an arrow. The only sound the troll made was a surprised gurgle, and a small splash as her body fell into the shallow water. Tyrathan continued in this manner, picking off all the solitary trolls he found wandering the perimeter one by one, until he came to the last three. They were sitting in a circle around a small campfire they’d built just inside the wall, where the ground was dry.

_Good. Their eyes won’t be adjusted to the dark._

He positioned himself so that when he took out the first one of the group, the campfire would be between him and the remaining two, making him even harder to see in the shade of the trees. One of the trolls laughed, passing a wineskin to the one Tyrathan was aiming at. The arrow went in through the back of the troll’s neck and out the bottom of the wineskin. The troll went down, spraying blood and wine, and her companions sprang up, one of them snatching up a spear that lay nearby and throwing it, whether by skill or pure luck, directly at Tyrathan.

He dodged, but doing so caused his next arrow to go wide, and it embedded itself in the troll’s shoulder instead of her heart. In the time it took Tyrathan to nock and fire a second arrow to finish the job, the third troll, who had dropped into a low crouch the moment the first of her companions went down, had managed to take cover behind the wall. Tyrathan cursed under his breath and retreated further into the underbrush.

The section of wall the last troll had disappeared behind was a short one; she couldn’t escape without being seen, but neither could Tyrathan approach without leaving himself open. If he tried to circle around, he risked letting her slip away in the other direction, and if she had any friends left in the vicinity, that would spell trouble. And the longer he allowed her to stay behind cover undisturbed, the better she would be able to plan her next move.

A quiet burbling sound coming from behind him caught his attention. He took a step aside and risked a glance in the direction of the sound.

A dark red liquid was bubbling up from the ground, forming a rapidly expanding pool that, had Tyrathan not moved, he would soon have found himself standing in. Somehow, it looked much deeper than it could possibly have been, and it seemed to him like there was something just below the surface. He took another step back, readying his bow and taking aim.

Without warning, a spear sprang up from the strange pool, grazing Tyrathan’s arm and making him release the bowstring. The arrow caught the troll in the throat just as she emerged from the liquid. She fell to the ground, thrashing in pain, and Tyrathan scrabbled for his knife to finish her off before she could regenerate the damage. The last of his quarry dealt with, he leaned back against a tree to inspect the damage to his arm.

To his relief, the cut was superficial, and the bleeding soon stopped as he applied pressure to it. After a moment, he flexed his arm experimentally. It stung, but not so much that he wouldn’t be able to use it. He pushed himself off the tree and headed for the Necropolis. Though he was reasonably sure there were no more of the pale trolls around, he nevertheless kept a wary eye as he left the cover of the trees and approached the central building.

He wasn’t sure what he had expected Bwonsamdi’s Necropolis to look like on the inside, but the reality was somehow more ominous that he had prepared for. Even gloomier than the swampland that surrounded it, the inside of the Necropolis consisted of a platform flanked by braziers of blue flame, which overlooked a deep pit with no way back up should one fall down, though the fall itself hardly looked survivable.

“I am here,” Tyrathan announced to the empty, stagnant air, and was gratified to see Bwonsamdi’s form materialize over the abyss.

“So you are,” said Bwonsamdi. “And you kept your end of our bargain, too. I got some new faces in my care. Suppose you be wanting to speak with Vol’jin now.”

Tyrathan nodded. “As was our agreement.”

“Well, now,” said Bwonsamdi. “I’m afraid that ain’t exactly what I said. I said I would see about arranging it. You see,” he spread his arms, palms up. “I ain’t got Vol’jin.”

“ _What_?”

“He ain’t here. He never came to me.”

“So you tricked me.” Tyrathan supposed he should’ve known better than to trust a being he knew next to nothing about.

“Not at all, not at all,” said Bwonsamdi, his tone so sweet it looped back to threatening. “I be a loa of my word. After all, ain’t nobody gonna want to make deals with me if I ain’t keep my side of the bargain. Now, I can’t be calling on spirits I ain’t got, but that don’t mean nobody can.”

At those words, Tyrathan head movement from outside. With nowhere to hide, he could only stand his ground. He reached for his knife.

“Now, none of that,” chastised Bwonsamdi. “Play nice.”

Tyrathan reluctantly put the knife away. He had no choice but to obey Bwonsamdi. For now.

A male Zandalari entered the chamber, bearing no weapons, and did not look the least bit surprised to see a human in the heart of Zandalari territory, communing with a loa.

“Hanzabu here be one of me most loyal followers,” said Bwonsamdi, indicating the Zandalari.

“And he can call Vol’jin?”

“No,” said Hanzabu. “But I can help you call him.”

“Why would you do that?”

“You think you be the only one making deals with me?” interjected Bwonsamdi. “He got his reasons, don’tcha, Hanzabu?”

Hanzabu nodded, unfazed by Bwonsamdi’s mocking tone.

“Fine,” said Tyrathan. “Show me how to do it.”

Hanzabu motioned for Tyrathan to follow, and headed outside. Tyrathan was nearly out the door when Bwonsamdi spoke up again.

“One last thing,” he said, and Tyrathan turned to look back at him. The Loa reached out and touched a finger to his injured arm. A soothing coolness enveloped the sore area, and through the hole the spear had torn into his sleeve, Tyrathan could see the flesh knit together.

“A little gift from old Bwonsamdi,” said the loa.

Tyrathan narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

Bwonsamdi spread his arms wide. “I want to see ya quest done! Didn’t I tell you I be wanting answers and you might be able to find them?”

Tyrathan made a thoughtful sound and flexed his arm, now feeling like it had never been wounded in the first place.

Bwonsamdi’s laughter filled the chamber. “Be proud, manthing!” he boomed, and his usage of that word rankled for reasons Tyrathan couldn’t put to words. “None of ya kind ever got me boon before!” Then he leant down, face level with Tyrathan’s. “But don’t go thinking a little bit of regeneration makes you a troll, now. You lose a finger, it gonna stay lost.”

Tyrathan nodded. “I heal faster, not better. Understood.”

“Now run along,” said Bwonsamdi. “You got a spirit to summon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've entered unbetaed waters. Let me know if something is funky.


	3. The Loa's Favor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To pre-empt any confusion regarding the way I write Hanzabu's dialogue compared to Vol'jin and Bwonsamdi: as of Battle for Azeroth, Zandalari trolls speak differently from other trolls. The particular sentence structures we've come to think of as trollish, while present in the occasional Zandalari quest text, are completely absent from any and all voiced dialogue. I've elected to go with the speech patterns exhibited in the voiced dialogue.

Hanzabu led Tyrathan all the way out of the Necropolis grounds, and into the swamp proper. On their way, they passed some of the corpses of the pale trolls Tyrathan had slain earlier. Hanzabu cast an eye over the scene, then glanced back at Tyrathan, who tensed.

"Your doing?" Hanzabu asked and, amazingly, laughed when Tyrathan nodded. "Impressive work! I thought maybe the Horde had sent a hunting party."

“The Horde hunts them?”

The troll’s smile faded. “Don’t get any ideas about the enemies of your enemies, human. Blood trolls are friends to no one.”

Tyrathan lifted his hands in a placating gesture. “That wasn’t my intention. I was just curious.”

“Better keep that curiosity in check, then. Ask too many questions about the Horde, and I might start thinking you’re not here to speak with spirits.” Hanzabu paused mid-stride, turning to face Tyrathan. “Speaking of, why _do_ you want to summon Vol’jin of the Darkspear? You do realize he won’t tell a human anything in death he wouldn’t have in life, right?”

Tyrathan met his gaze evenly. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Hanzabu’s eyes narrowed, but he turned and resumed walking without another word, and continued to not to say a word until they reached their destination, which was another set of ruins. Having yet to see a truly inhabited settlement on the island, Tyrathan was beginning to wonder just how much of Zandalar had been abandoned to the elements. It would probably be unwise to ask.

“This is Zo’bal,” Hanzabu said. “An old shrine to Bwonsamdi. We won’t be disturbed here.”

Tyrathan took in the shrine’s cracked walls and the lone half collapsed building, and decided Hanzabu was probably right. It wasn’t big enough to be used as a base, and it clearly didn’t see much traffic by either Zandalari or blood trolls. “Okay,” he said. “Will you show me how to perform the summoning now?”

Hanzabu sighed. “You still don’t understand; I can’t just _show_ you. It’s not as simple as reciting the right words or making the right gestures. You have to learn to tap into the spirit world yourself.”

 _Of course,_ thought Tyrathan. _There’s a catch after catch. I don’t know why I expected any different._

“So!” Hanzabu clapped his hands together, his demeanor brightening considerably. “We’d better get started!” He dug into his pockets and produced a piece of chalk. Kneeling down, he began to draw a circular design onto the worn flagstones. “There are several paths to the power to call spirits,” he explained as he worked, “but for you, only one. Unless you want to spend years in training to become a priest, that is.” He finished the design with a flourish and stood up. “I’m assuming you don’t, so you’ll have to ask the loa directly.”

“Weren’t we just with a loa?” Tyrathan asked, gesturing back in the direction of the Necropolis.

“Loa, _plural_. The power is not granted by any single one of them. Think of it as a majority vote.” Hanzabu grabbed Tyrathan by the shoulder and pushed him forward. “Stand in the middle, here, and hold this.” He handed Tyrathan a small bowl, which Tyrathan took in both hands. Hanzabu produced a pouch from another of his pockets, and from it poured an iridescent powder into the bowl. Next came a small vial, from which he administered a single drop of liquid onto the powder, which ignited with a ‘poof’ as soon as the drop touched it. A sweet-smelling smoke filled Tyrathan’s nostrils and stung his eyes.

“Now stay like that until it burns out,” Hanzabu said, taking a step back.

Tyrathan desperately wanted to know just what it was that they were doing, but thought it best not to speak out in the middle of whatever it was. How had he allowed things to go this far with so few questions?

But of course he knew exactly how. He’d been tempted with his greatest weakness, and even now, he didn’t truly regret giving in. Not if it meant seeing Vol’jin just one more time. So he stood there stock-still, bowl smoking away in his hands and eyes watering, until the last of the powder had burned away and Hanzabu took the bowl from him.

“You can move now,” said the troll. “The ritual is finished.”

Tyrathan stepped out of the circle, careful not to disturb any of the lines. “Was something supposed to happen? I don’t feel any different.”

“The loa rarely respond immediately,” Hanzabu said as he shook the ashes out of the bowl and wiped the inside clean with a piece of cloth. “They will come when they’re ready.”

“Nothing to do but wait, huh?” Tyrathan muttered. “In the meantime, is it okay if I go out to hunt for supper?”

“If you really want to. There’s food in the inn to last several days, though.” Hanzabu gestured at the ancient building, then paused. “Humans do eat fish, don’t they?”

“Yes,” said Tyrathan, rather taken aback, “we do.”

In the end, Tyrathan did not go hunting. He shared a meal of boiled catfish with Hanzabu, after which the troll turned in for the night. The inn, although partially destroyed, still provided some shelter from the elements, and the parts left standing appeared structurally sound, but Tyrathan declined to sleep, opting instead to stay up and wait for the promised visitation. Hanzabu told him it would make no difference if he was asleep when the loa answered his call, but he didn’t like the thought of being snuck up on. And privately, he wasn’t sure if he trusted the Zandalari enough to sleep in his presence.

The night wore on, and Tyrathan sat in the doorway of the inn, staring at the starlit sky and waiting. He had nearly dozed off when he was seized by an inexplicable sense of dread, the hairs on his arms standing up and his heartbeat picking up. Though he could not see or hear anything out of place, he was certain that something had entered Zo’bal.

 _You seek the approval of the loa?_ whispered a soundless voice within his mind. _You, Tyrathan Khort, killer of trolls?_

 _A killer I may be,_ Tyrathan replied, _but that isn’t all I am. Not anymore._

_But you don’t deny it’s still a part of you. Why should we grant you powers that you’ll only use against our true worshippers?_

_That is not what I seek it for. I only wish to speak to Vol’jin of the Darkspear._

_And after that?_ the voice mocked. _It is a power with many uses. Would you really abstain from using what you have learned against his people?_

_If that’s what it takes, I will swear never to lift a hand against any member of the Darkspear tribe again._

_Even if you swore it, I would not believe it,_ the voice said. _And yet, the fact that Hanzabu still lives is proof that you believe it yourself_.

_You expected me to kill him?_

_We expected you to try. You think he is sleeping? No, he trusts you no more than you trust him. He awaits your betrayal with a knife clutched to his chest. It was a test, one you would have failed had you even thought about killing him._

_And had I failed, I would not live to tell the tale?_

The loa ignored his question. _I will grant you the sight, human, but do not think the path ahead will be easy._

The loa’s presence faded, but something else changed with it; Tyrathan found himself somewhere far from the muggy swampland of Nazmir, standing in the back of a crowd gathered inside a domed hall with a distinctly orcish look to its architecture. the body he inhabited was taller than his own, but even so, all he could see over the heads of the others was a Horde banner hung between the tusks of a pit lord’s skull, and below that, the very top of a bright red mohawk.

Vol’jin. Grommash Hold.

Tyrathan couldn’t move. He was not in control of the body whose eyes he was looking through. It was just a vision of the past, and he wasn’t really there.

Someone new entered the hold, and the crowd parted before them, allowing Tyrathan, too, a clear view of Vol’jin, slumped on his throne. The Warchief looked dreadful. His skin had a grey cast to it and his eyes, one of which was clouded over, were sunken in. One of his tusks was also broken. Bandages over his middle failed to conceal a gruesome wound oozing fel-tainted pus, or the black lines radiating out from it, skittering across his body like cracks in porcelain. Seeing all of this, and hearing the troll’s rasping breath, Tyrathan realized he must be witnessing Vol’jin’s last moments. He wanted to avert his eyes. He hadn’t been there when it had happened, hadn’t been _invited_ , and although he knew that had nothing to do with whether or not Vol’jin would have wanted him there, it still felt like he was trespassing on something that was not for his eyes.

But he had no choice in the matter; he had been given someone else’s memory to view, and so he could only watch as Vol’jin appointed Sylvanas Windrunner as his successor, mere moments before breathing his last, and Tyrathan’s heart ached with the grief that had never left him.

A jab in his side jolted Tyrathan out of the vision. He sat bolt upright, heart pounding and ready to defend himself, but there was no danger. He was back in Zo’bal, and it was daylight. Hanzabu stood over him, one foot raised where he’d been preparing to kick him again, and it was only then Tyrathan realized he’d fallen asleep at some point.

“Looked like you were having a bad dream,” Hanzabu said by way of explanation, then stepped over him to exit the inn.

Tyrathan shook his head, trying to will his heartbeat to even. Was a dream all it had been? Had he simply drifted off waiting for the loa to come, and let his sleeping mind supply him with what he’d been expecting to happen? Something moved at the edge of his vision. From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of something zooming past the inn. He stood up to investigate, and froze in the doorway.

He’d taken Zo’bal for just another uninhabited ruin, and in his defense he had seen nothing during the previous night to disabuse him of that supposition. But now, it was a different story. The place was full of spirits. Here, a spectral pterrordax waited calmly by its equally incorporeal handler. There, a blacksmith toiled over an unseen anvil. The thing he’d caught a glimpse of was one of two ghostly Zandalari children, chasing each other around the shrine.

Hanzabu glanced over, and saw Tyrathan staring. “Something wrong?”

“I thought we were alone here.”

Hanzabu’s eyes flicked to the spirit Tyrathan was looking at, then locked onto Tyrathan’s. “You can see them?”

“I can now. Were they always here?”

Instead of answering, Hanzabu shook his head, smiling to himself. “Should have known better than to doubt Bwonsamdi’s judgement.” He looked at Tyrathan. “You continue to surprise, human. I didn’t really think you were cut out for this.” He lifted an arm in a beckoning gesture. “Come, I’ll introduce you to the locals now you have the sight.”

He took Tyrathan to a male spirit who was staring listlessly into middle distance. “This is Zam’cha, the stable master,” he said.

“A pleasure,” said Tyrathan in Zandali.

Hanzabu’s head snapped around to stare intently at him, which Tyrathan pointedly ignored. Zam’cha returned his greeting placidly, like he was distracted by something. They went around Zo’bal greeting every spirit in turn; Du’ba the flight master, Ouda the blacksmith, Ru’ka the innkeeper, and the Zubo family, consisting of the two children and their parents, and while all of them were perfectly polite, they all gave Tyrathan that same impression of not being quite there.

“They’re not,” Hanzabu said when Tyrathan shared this observation with him. “Spirits that don’t cross to the other side will gradually become stuck in a routine and forget themselves. The ones here in Zo’bal have been here since long before either of us was born, and unless they fade away entirely, they’ll still be there when we’re long gone.”

Tyrathan watched as the children ran past him once again. “So they don’t really know there’s a human here?”

“They do, they just don’t remember that they would once have had opinions about it.” Hanzabu rolled a shoulder. “They’re not much for conversation; they mostly just perform their jobs. Forever.”

Tyrathan studied the spirits around them, and an unpleasant thought occurred to him. “And that happens to all spirits who don’t go where they’re supposed to?”

“Eventually, yes.”

“Then, is it possible Vol’jin has begun to forget, too?”

Hanzabu shook his head. “No, he’s a strong one. It’ll take decades if not centuries for him.”

It was Tyrathan’s turn to fix Hanzabu with an intent stare. “How do you know?”

The troll sighed. “The spirit of Vol’jin was summoned recently. Sharp as ever, the way I’ve heard it told. Were you not told this?”

“No, I wasn’t.” Tyrathan frowned. “I expect there’s a reason why I wasn’t directed to the person who already summoned Vol’jin’s spirit once?”

“Yes, there is,” said Hanzabu, exasperated. “That person was the king’s daughter, Princess Talanji herself. You can see why she couldn’t be called to perform the summoning for you.” After a beat, he added. “Not that it would have helped us much even if she could. As I hear, Talanji hasn’t been able to call him for a while, either.”

“Why is that?”

Hanzabu spread his hands. “No one seems to know.”

“Not even Bwonsamdi?”

“He least of all. All we know is that Vol’jin’s spirit appears to be stuck on this side, cut off from all loa.”

Tyrathan thought back to the scene he had witnessed in the night, though remembering the sight of Vol’jin weakened by fel made his stomach turn. Could the manner of death have had something to do with it? Had the demonic energies tainted even the Warchief’s noble soul? Did it matter what the reason was, if the end result was that Vol’jin may be lost forever?

“If even the Zandalari can’t find him anymore, do I have any hope of success?”

“You tell me,” said Hanzabu, seating himself on the steps of the inn. “Maybe now you’d like to tell me what exactly it is that you want with Vol’jin of the Darkspear?”

Tyrathan considered. Perhaps he could trust the troll with that much. “I’ll tell you, but only if you tell me about your bargain with Bwonsamdi.”

Hanzabu shrugged. “Sure. It’s nothing especially interesting. I asked for knowledge. Bwonsamdi wanted to be paid in souls, as is customary. But it was a lot of knowledge I wanted, so the cost was also high, and I am chipping away at the debt, but I’m not very… _efficient_ at it. Those blood trolls you killed at the Necropolis? It is embarrassing to admit, but I couldn’t have taken that many at once.”

“Well, not to toot my own horn, but I’m not a fair point of comparison. I’m very good at killing things bigger and stronger than myself.”

“And I am not,” said Hanzabu. “So sometimes Bwonsamdi will offer me additional deals. I do him a favour and he knocks a few souls off my remaining debt.”

“Makes sense. So, what kind of knowledge?”

“The kind few others have.” Hanzabu waved a hand in the air. “Forgotten rites and traditions. Stories and spells that aren’t commonly studied or taught. I do not have the aptitude to use much of it, but just knowing it can be useful.”

Tyrathan nodded. “They do say knowledge is power.”

“Your turn. What is so important that you would bargain with a loa and agree to work with one of the Zandalari?”

“That’s actually a great question, when you put it like that.” Tyrathan exhaled, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s Vol’jin himself. I don’t - I’m not doing this to extract information from him, or to gain any new insight about how to better kill trolls. I just want to talk to him one more time.” He paused. The next part he’d never said aloud before, and the words caught in his throat. “Because I miss him.”

Hanzabu looked at him with something akin to sympathy, though his brow also furrowed. “You knew him?”

“It’s not public knowledge for obvious reasons, but we were friends.”

“Huh,” said Hanzabu. “That raises more questions than it answers, but I see now why Bwonsamdi thought you could do this.”

Tyrathan looked up. “And why is that?”

“A familiar voice carries further. Talanji never met Vol’jin in life; she managed it with sheer spiritual power, but you...” He put a hand to his chin, thumb rubbing one of his tusks. “Yes. Yes! It can work after all! You just need to get through the rest of the trials.”

Tyrathan wondered if Hanzabu knew the first trial had been him. Perhaps he did. Perhaps this new excitement was born partially from relief. Either way, it made Tyrathan feel a little better that his reluctant guide was beginning to believe in what they were doing; the trials ahead appeared a little less daunting.


	4. The Shadow Hunter's Path

On the day after passing his first trial, Tyrathan did go for a hunt. He said it was to clear his mind, but he was also curious to find out what his loa-enhanced eyes might be able to see out in the mire that he couldn’t before. To his disappointment, the answer turned out to be ‘not much’. Nazmir was crawling with wildlife, none of it terribly new or exciting, and although he did spot the occasional troll spirit drifting overhead towards the Necropolis when he veered close to the temple, apart from that Nazmir hardly seemed a hotspot of spiritual activity.

Tyrathan stalked the swamp, making sure to keep well away from any settlements, ruined or otherwise, as well as paths that looked well traveled. He was technically in enemy territory, after all, and it wouldn’t do to be seen by the locals - or worse yet, Horde. He came across plenty of crocolisks and some raptors, but as tempting a challenge as they would have been, he left the large beasts alone. Fresh meat spoiled quickly in such a muggy atmosphere as Nazmir’s, and that same atmosphere precluded most methods of curing. A troll’s appetite was easily twice that of a human’s, but Tyrathan still doubted he and Hanzabu could eat an entire raptor between them, so smaller prey it was.

He finally came upon a pack of creatures that resembled small, gangly raptors, and decided he’d found his quarry. The small beasts were clearly predators, but they scattered to the underbrush like prey animals when Tyrathan’s arrow pierced one of them. Just as well; he’d only wanted the one, anyway. 

Having collected and gutted his kill, Tyrathan returned to Zo’bal, where he found Hanzabu more or less as he’d left him; seated in the middle of the shrine poring over a scroll. The troll kept a collection of them in a beat-up chest hidden among some of the rubble in the inn.

Hanzabu looked up as Tyrathan entered the shrine. “Any luck?”

Tyrathan lifted the carcass he was carrying in answer. “How about you?”

Hanzabu rolled up the scroll he’d been reading and stood, dusting himself off. “Not much. I thought I had something on spirits disappearing, but it all just speaks of the natural fading, which we know cannot be the problem.” He laced his fingers and stretched his arms high above his head, back arching. “This could well be unprecedented, but I have another cache of scrolls in Zul’jan, south of here. I’ll go look through it tomorrow.”

Tyrathan nodded. He hadn’t really expected an easy answer to be found in Hanzabu’s library of lost knowledge, but he had still hoped for a clue.

“Hey, chin up, human!” Hanzabu said, slapping him on the back and very nearly knocking the wind out of him. “Like I said, a familiar voice goes a long way. This is all just in case, you probably won’t even need any extra help.” He clapped his hands together. “Now, what do you say we see about cooking that saurid of yours?”

They roasted the saurid meat over a fire, after which Hanzabu, upon learning Tyrathan had never had mon’dazi before, took great delight in introducing Tyrathan to the traditional Zandalari dessert. As he bit into the sugar-coated shell and struggled to keep a straight face when he got a mouthful of something distinctly fishy, Tyrathan wondered if the troll’s increasingly jovial attitude was affected, or if his newfound belief in Tyrathan’s quest - and possibly the lack of an attack the night previous - had brought some of his guard down.

That night, Tyrathan did not stay up to wait for the loa. More confident in his safety, he stretched out in one of the inn’s battered beds. It offered little in the way of comfort, but he’d slept in worse conditions.

He awoke at dawn with no memory of what, if anything, he’d dreamt about, and certainly no knowledge of any loa visitations. Hanzabu looked a little disappointed to hear it, but in the same breath assured him it was nothing to worry about.

“The trials are begun, and they won’t stop until you’ve passed them all, or fail at one. And if you do fail, you will know.”

With that, Hanzabu headed out to Zul’jan, leaving Tyrathan with the placid spirits of the shrine. Tyrathan, for his part, set about trying everything he could think of to speed up the process and jumpstart his next trial: he spent an hour or two standing in the ritual circle that still remained where Hanzabu had drawn it on the first night, at first perfectly still, then cautiously calling out to any loa that might be listening - to no avail. He took frequent naps, hoping the test might come in his sleep, but he had no such luck. He even tried meditating in the Pandaren style, though he suspected troll deities were unlikely to respond to it. When that too failed, he started going through some of the forms the Shado-Pan monks had taught him in Pandaria. This, he didn’t expect to be of any help with the loa; it was just something to pass the time and keep his body in motion.

Three days passed in this manner. Hanzabu returned on the second, empty-handed but for some food to restock the inn. Even in his extensive library of lost knowledge, there was nothing to match the circumstances of the disappearance of Vol’jin’s spirit. It was a disappointment, but one they’d both known to expect.

Tyrathan redoubled his efforts, and still nothing came of it. When he went to bed on the third day, having worked himself to exhaustion going through the forms until he physically couldn’t anymore, he had almost forgotten to expect anything. Sleep had barely taken him when he found himself in the presence of a loa spirit. It shone bright and formless before him, a disembodied voice once again emanating from somewhere within Tyrathan’s skull.

 _Still here?_ the voice said, a pitying note to it. _Isn’t this too much? Far too much for the sake of one troll?_

_We’re not talking about just any troll._

_No indeed! A shadow hunter, Darkspear chieftain, Warchief of the Horde. Respected by many. Feared by many more. Why should any of it make him special now? Why should it matter to you?_

_It doesn’t,_ Tyrathan replied. _What matters is he was a friend, and I would speak with him once more._

 _Be honest, human,_ the loa coaxed. _There is something more at work here. No one would go to these lengths just for one conversation._

_I would. I am._

The darkness surrounding him brightened suddenly, and he found himself deep in a jungle not unlike the wilds of Stranglethorn Vale. He saw an image of himself creeping through the bushes, flanked by two trolls and followed closely by a third. It was a hunting party, clear as day, and he was leading it. He could not make out the features of his trollish companions, but he knew either way this was a scene that had never happened in his life.

 _Or perhaps you wish to be a troll._ the loa accused. _You’re abandoning your people in wartime to chase an impossible dream. Is it cowardice, or sympathy for the enemy?_

 _Neither,_ said Tyrathan. _It’s selfishness. And worry for what has become of the spirit of my friend._

The hunting party in the vision found their quarry: a human man in Stormwind’s colours, a hood pulled low over his face.

_And you stay, even if it means hurting your own?_

_A war won’t miss one man,_ Tyrathan countered, not taking his eyes off of the vision. _I am in no way hurting the Alliance by doing this._

The human, having been surrounded by the hunters, pulled his hood away, revealing the face of King Anduin Wrynn. Tyrathan watched as his counterpart nocked an arrow and pointed it squarely at his king.

_But would you, if asked to?_

In the vision, Tyrathan saw himself pulling the bowstring a little tighter.

He shook his head. _Never._

The scene before him changed, the figures in it rippling away like reflections on water. Now Tyrathan saw a cell of bare stone, and in the center of it knelt another image of himself, chained to the wall by the neck.

 _It does not matter,_ the loa said. _Your people will judge you a traitor either way for working with trolls at all. You will rot away in the Stockade for the crime of having a heart._

 _That was always a possibility,_ said Tyrathan _If they find out._

_Do you really think they won’t?_

_Then I am a traitor already. My mind is made up, and my answer won’t change. I will make any personal sacrifice for this, but I will not act against the Alliance._

_Knowing what is and isn’t yours to give is commendable,_ the loa said. _Hold on to that knowledge. You may be tested on it yet._

The image of the cell vanished, leaving Tyrathan in a lightless void with the loa in his head.

 _I grant you hearing,_ the loa said, and then he was alone.

When he woke up, it was light out and he was alone in the inn. He rolled over to his back and stretched, inhaling deep and releasing the breath just as slowly, then sat up. Nothing around him seemed any different to the night previous. He could hear the crackle of a campfire outside the inn, and the spirits of the two troll children laughing as they always did, caught up in their endless game of tag. He could also hear the usual sounds of the surrounding swampland: the rustling of the wind in the trees, the distant calls of the brutosaurs on the coast. Nothing out of the ordinary.

He stood and headed outside, where he found Hanzabu seated by the fire, roasting some fish on the ends of sticks while reading another one of his scrolls. The troll glanced over his shoulder at Tyrathan as he heard him approach.

“Oh,” he said mildly. “I was beginning to think maybe you weren’t going to wake up at all.” He held up a fish. “Hungry?”

Only then did Tyrathan realize he was. Ravenously so. He sat down by the fire and accepted the fish. “What time is it?”

“Late afternoon,” said Hanzabu, glancing up at the overcast sky, then back at Tyrathan with a peculiar look in his eye. “Did you have another visitation?”

“I did,” Tyrathan said between mouthfuls of fish. “The long sleep give it away?”

Hanzabu nodded. ”You slept like the dead. For a little while, it was almost like everything was back to normal around here.”

“You sound like you wish it was,” Tyrathan observed.

Hanzabu sighed, spreading his hands. “I won’t lie; it makes me nervous to be harboring a human in these times, even if it is in service to Bwonsamdi. The sooner all of this is done, the better.”

He fell quiet, looking like there was something more he wanted to say, but didn’t know if he should. It was a look Tyrathan had seen on many faces in the past, though usually only after they’d witnessed him do something in battle that they didn’t fully approve of. It was a look that said the person was reassessing their view of him, and not usually for the better. Only this time, Tyrathan couldn’t even begin to guess what he’d done to deserve it.

He was about to ask, when a loud cry from the direction of the swamp cut him off.

He sprang up. “What was that?”

“What was what?” asked Hanzabu, following his line of sight, clearly puzzled.

Another cry, clearer this time, and certainly no animal. It almost sounded like speech, though Tyrathan couldn’t pick out any words he recognized. “There it is again! You don’t hear that?”

“No,” Hanzabu said, standing up as well.

“ _Hearing_ ,” Tyrathan breathed to himself. “Could this be a part of the trials?”

“I don’t know!” huffed Hanzabu. “Supposedly, everything you experience is a test, but that does not mean everything that happens is the loa’s doing.” 

Tyrathan went to collect his bow and hunting knife from the inn. “I’m going to investigate. This doesn't feel like a coincidence.” 

He had scarcely gotten out of sight of Zo’bal when something changed. He still wasn’t very far from the coast, shouldn’t be even close to the denser parts of Nazmir, but the swamp had gone dark and quiet around him. He could see the cloud cover through the still quite sparse canopy, but even that looked dark and foreboding. He slowed down, keeping to the cover of the vegetation where he could, and took care to make as little sound as possible. The cries had ceased, but somehow he was sure he was heading in the right direction. 

He came to the edge of a small clearing that had at some point been the site of some kind of a building or watchpost, but was now little more than a small square of paved ground. There, in the middle of it, squatted a troll. In the gloom it was hard to make out detail, but by the silhouette Tyrathan judged the figure a male jungle troll. Likely Darkspear, then. Horde. Tyrathan pulled himself behind a tree, keeping his eyes on the troll. The troll kept perfectly still, and from his posture appeared to be staring straight ahead, though there was nothing there that Tyrathan could see. Had this troll also been called here, as Tyrathan had, or had he been the one calling out? In either case, why? 

Just then, moonlight broke through the clouds, and it shouldn’t have been nighttime yet, but that concern was quickly forgotten when the troll’s face was illuminated. 

It was Vol’jin. Even with the war paint that he hadn’t worn during his time at the monastery, there was no mistaking it. And in the flesh, no less. 

Was this where he’d been this entire time? In some sideways pocket of Nazmir apparently inaccessible to the loa where spirits gained physical form? 

In his awe, Tyrathan leaned out from his cover, and Vol’jin turned his head sharply, his eyes locking with Tyrathan’s. He stood up, snarling, and lunged. 

“Whoa!” Tyrathan leapt back just in time to avoid a blow to the head. “Vol'jin, it’s me! It’s Tyrathan!" 

Vol’jin gave no sign of having heard him. Instead, he came at Tyrathan again, forcing the man to retreat once more. He was unarmed, but that hardly made him harmless. Any troll was perfectly capable of breaking a human with their bare hands, and thanks to the training he had undergone with the Shado-Pan, Vol’jin’s bare hands were capable of much worse. 

Of course, Tyrathan had sparred with Vol’jin before, and as such knew well the reach and power of those long limbs. He also knew he could dodge with relative ease if he concentrated only on that and didn’t even think about trying to retaliate. The downside of that plan was that he would almost certainly tire out long before Vol’jin did. 

“Do you really not recognize me?” He circled back into the clearing, where he could move more freely and, he hoped, Vol’jin could see him better. 

But Vol’jin still didn’t react. He just kept pressing forward, and Tyrathan kept ducking and twisting. It occurred to him as they went about their deadly dance that something else was off. There was no trace of Shado-Pan training in Vol’jin’s movements; he fought like any other troll Tyrathan had encountered. And not only that, he didn’t seem to be adapting to Tyrathan’s tactics at all, as Vol’jin always had. He was far too easy to evade. 

This wasn’t Vol’jin. 

It may have been some kind of a spectral echo of him, or something else entirely, but whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t Vol’jin himself, and that was the only thing that mattered. He rolled under another swing, and drew his knife. 

__Now that he had seen past the illusion, he noticed more flaws in it. The shape was perfect, down to the faint scar above the right collarbone, nearly invisible under the fur - but in action, there was just nothing of Vol’jin present. No strategy or finesse, no sense of any _thought_ behind the wild attacks._ _

_Focus. You’ve killed trolls in close combat before. You know where to strike. Forget everything else._

__Tyrathan ducked under a horizontal swing, and surged forward, slicing the impostor’s arm deep as he went. As his opponent grabbed instinctively at the injured arm, Tyrathan kicked one leg out from under him, bringing him down to one knee. He made a clumsy grab at Tyrathan, and managed to grab his ankle, but Tyrathan was already bringing his knife up. He plunged it to the hilt under the troll’s jaw, and the hand around his ankle went slack._ _

__Tyrathan pulled the knife free and stepped away, trying not to look at the corpse. Knowing it wasn’t really Vol’jin didn’t make the sight of his friend dead by his own hand any less sickening._ _

__“Was this another test?” he asked the empty air. “If so, points for cruelty, but the real Vol’jin would have been much more formidable an opponent.”_ _

__The body stirred, and Tyrathan took another few steps away from it._ _

__“It was not a test of your skill, but your mind.” It had Vol’jin’s voice but not his cadence, and that was almost more upsetting than the sight of the corpse turning its head in Tyrathan’s direction. “You must know illusion from reality if you are to walk this path.”_ _

__Tyrathan couldn’t keep himself from shuddering._ _

__“I grant you voice.”_ _

__The vision - for that was what it was - seemed to collapse in on itself, taking with it the unnatural gloom like it was a cloth being pulled into a hole in reality. Tyrathan blinked in the sudden light, and found himself standing shin deep in stagnant water, still surrounded by silence._ _

__He looked down and was startled to find his hands wreathed in dark flames up to the elbow. The alarm dissipated somewhat when it registered that the fire wasn’t burning his skin, but that wasn't enough for him to deem it entirely harmless. As he watched, the flames seemed to die down, retreating under his skin. He’d never seen its like before._ _

__He lifted his hand up to inspect them closer. “What in the world…?”_ _

__A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. Tyrathan whirled around, coming nose to nose with Bwonsamdi’s grinning face._ _

__“Congratulations, shadow hunter!” the loa crowed. “Ya trials be complete.”_ _

__Tyrathan glanced back at his hands, almost expecting to see the strange fire again. “Shadow hunter?” he repeated. “I don’t -” He stopped himself, let his arms fall to his sides. “That can’t be what this has been all about.”_ _

__Bwonsamdi laughed. “What, didn’t I tell you you’d make a fine shadow hunter?”_ _

__It was true that the loa had made such a remark, but Tyrathan in no way considered it a logical next step to actually set him on the path. And yet, that appeared to be what had happened._ _

__“To what end? You must have experienced shadow hunters at your disposal already. What possible reason was there for this?”_ _

__“Do I need a reason?” Bwonsamdi said, rising up into the air and spreading his arms wide. “Maybe I just wanted to see what would happen. And what do you got to be complaining about, anyway? You got what you were after.”_ _

“That was not Vol’jin,” Tyrathan protested. “That was some other… _thing_ wearing his face.” 

__“No no no, not that.” Bwonsamdi waved a hand in the air as if shooing away a bug. “That be just a test. Did you forget again? You weren’t promised Vol’jin; you were promised a chance to speak to him yourself. But it be no trifle, calling a spirit! Why you think Hanzabu couldn’t do it, hm? It be taking a priest, or a witch doctor.” He paused, grinning. “Or a shadow hunter.”_ _

__“Which you say I have now become.”_ _

__“That’s right.”_ _

__“How can I be a shadow hunter when I don’t have the first clue how to _be_ one? All I know about shadow hunters is what little Vol’jin told me back in Pandaria, and that hardly helps at all!” Tyrathan brought both his hands to his chest in an empathetic gesture. “I am not a troll, Bwonsamdi!”_ _

__Bwonsamdi sucked at his teeth. “True, but there be more troll in you than you know. Vol’jin thought you worthy, and you proved it by passing the trials.” His image begun to fade away into thin air, his voice becoming more distant with it. “You been given the tools, manthing. What you do with them be up to you.” With his departure, all the regular sounds of the swampland filled the air once more, breaking the strange mood that had hung over the swamp since Tyrathan had entered his last trial._ _

__Tyrathan looked around, recognizing his surroundings at last. He sighed, and began the trek back to Zo’bal. Something told him this ordeal was far from over._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to have slowed down so much. Sometimes stringing words together is hard.


	5. Echoes

The twin moons shone full and bright over white sand. There were no sounds aside from the gentle lap of the waves against the shore of this unfamiliar beach. Tyrathan breathed deep of the cool night air. He knew it was a vision - it had to be - but it was different from the ones the loa had granted him before; he could taste the sea salt in the air and feel the breeze on his skin. He was also able to move around freely, no longer an outside observer borrowing someone else’s eyes.

He walked along the waterline, urged forward by an inexplicable compulsion. Towards what, he did not know, but he could tell he was getting closer with each step. He was sure he had never seen this place before, could not say where exactly it was (though by the vegetation he would guess somewhere in the South Sea) but just being in this place, smelling the air and hearing the sea, lit a warm glow in his chest, growing more intense the further he walked. Somehow, it felt almost like returning home after a long time away.

The beach grew rocky under his feet, but Tyrathan couldn’t stop walking, and before long he was wading in the water, pushed there by the high cliffs that faced the water on this side of the island. He didn’t mind; whatever unknowable thing it was that beckoned him was close now. He could feel it.

Soon, Tyrathan came to a spot where the cliffside made a sharp turn inward, forming a small cove. There was another beach here. A row of canoes bobbed in the water, tethered to decorated posts, and across the sand, the rock wall split to form a path leading inland.

Someone was coming down that path. A shadow in the shape of a troll.

Tyrathan considered hiding, but there was really no place to hide there, unless he went back into the sea, which he did not have time to do, so he stayed put. The troll reached the mouth of the path and cast a wary eye over the cove. His eyes looked right through Tyrathan as they passed over the man, but in the brief moment that sharp gaze was aimed directly at him, Tyrathan was hit with recognition.

It was Vol’jin - but not as he had known the Darkspear chieftain. The troll before him was ganglier than Tyrathan remembered, and wore his bright red hair in a long, thick braid running halfway down his back instead of the familiar mohawk. His face a little rounder, too, and his tusks shorter, the sharp chin and long nose not quite so prominent.

Tyrathan, to his knowledge, had never met an adolescent troll, but this certainly looked like one.

Vol’jin half turned to look back up the path. “Coast clear,” he called over his shoulder.

With a rustling of leaves, another troll looking about the same age emerged from the shadows and joined Vol’jin. From the way the two of them walked down the beach, heads bowed together and casting nervous glances behind them every few steps, it was clear to see they were up to something their elders would disapprove of. Evidently, even troll boys would be boys.

“So,” said Vol’jin’s friend as Vol’jin led them towards the canoes. “what be so important it couldn’t wait till morning?”

“You’ll see,” said Vol’jin, grinning. It was surreal for Tyrathan, watching those familiar eyes twinkle with teenage mischief as the young troll set about unmooring a canoe.

“Ya papa won’t be pleased if he catches us sneaking off again,” said the other troll, his eyes flicking back to the path again.

“Ah, you let me worry about my papa,” said Vol’jin, unbothered. “This gonna be worth it, Zal. Trust me.” He climbed into the canoe and held out his hand

The other troll cracked a smile, accepting the hand and letting Vol’jin pull him aboard. “I always do.”

Whatever it was the two were up to, Tyrathan would never find out, because at that moment the vision splintered and warped, the serene nighttime sky morphing into the blazing red of a sunset. The surroundings didn’t look that different from where he had just been, what with the white sand and the tropical plant life, but he could feel it was not the same island, somehow.

Two groups of trolls stood facing each other, Tyrathan himself in the middle, unseen by either one. On one side, near the water, he saw Vol’jin, not much older than he had been in the previous vision, flanked by his people. On the other, a masked witch doctor surrounded by at least twice as many trolls as Vol’jin had with him. Many of Vol’jin’s group were bruised and bloodied to varying degrees, their injuries regenerating gradually as they huddled together, some nearly waist-deep in the sea. The other group appeared largely unscathed, standing in a well-organized row and brandishing their weapons at their opponents, who appeared uncharacteristically reluctant to fight.

“Zalazane!” roared Vol’jin. “You gonna pay dearly for this!”

“You ain’t got the power to make me pay for anything!” crowed Zalazane from behind his army. “You be too weak to lead, Vol’jin! The Darkspear never gonna prosper under you!”

Vol’jin opened his mouth, but his response was drowned out by a tremendous surge of emotion that swept over the scene like a tidal wave and crashed into Tyrathan with comparable force. His sight grew dark as an anger that wasn’t his own boiled in his veins, demanding justice for a wrong he had not endured and knew nothing of. And underneath that, a raw anguish that he had no more context for wrenched at his heart. An unthinkable betrayal. A lifelong bond cast to the rocks. The intensity of emotion combined with his lack of comprehension was maddening.

He came out of the vision gasping for breath. It took him a moment to reorient himself, but at last the lingering fragments of the vision cleared away, resolving into the weathered stone wall that surrounded Zo’bal. Tyrathan sat still for some time, gazing out at the distant shape of the Necropolis, trying to make sense of what he had just witnessed.

A vision of the past, obviously, but what was its source? Was it Vol’jin’s memory, or Zalazane’s? Both? Neither? He was hesitant to label it progress, as disjointed memories didn’t necessarily bring him any closer to the actual spirit he was trying to find, but then again, it had to be a good sign that it was at least related to Vol’jin, right? He’d been trying to make contact for two days, but no matter how hard he had tried, his call had gone unanswered. With no one to guide him - Hanzabu and his library had been of little help, as summoning spirits evidently came down to a feeling; It could no more be taught in writing than walking - Tyrathan couldn’t tell if he was doing something wrong, or if Vol’jin’s spirit was simply unsummonable.

As a last resort, he had decided to change his approach; instead of trying to call Vol’jin to him, he had applied his skills as a hunter to tracking him. He knew the scent, after all, though he hadn’t been sure if one could stalk a spirit through the shadows in the same way one stalked prey in the physical world.

It had occurred to him that he likely was not meant to take the ‘hunter’ part of ‘shadow hunter’ quite so literally, but he had little to go on, and it _had_ produced results, hadn’t it? Where his attempts at summoning had only left him drained, with nothing to show for his effort except the exhausted tremble in his limbs, tracking had gotten him _something_.

Tyrathan drew in a slow breath, then exhaled, pulling himself to his feet and beginning to trudge towards the inn. He didn’t have any energy left to make another attempt right now.

Hanzabu was still up, praying by a ritual fire he’d lit in one of the shrine’s braziers. His head came up as Tyrathan passed him. “Anything?” he asked.

“I got something all right,” Tyrathan said, stopping. “But not the spirit himself, just… memories, I think.” He let out an irritated sigh. “Or something like that.”

Hanzabu perked up. “That’s good, though, yes? Better than the nothing you have had these last few days, at least. If we’re lucky, this will all be done soon.”

Tyrathan glanced toward the inn, where his bedroll was calling to him, but decided sleep could wait for a while longer. He joined Hanzabu by the brazier. “You just can’t wait to be rid of me, huh?”

Hanzabu laughed, though it sounded a touch forced. “I make no secret of it, human! The sooner I can return to my regular life, the better.”

Tyrathan did not respond - or rather, he had no response to give. He debated between just asking Hanzabu about his odd behaviour of late, and just going to bed and worrying about it another day. Initially, Tyrathan had identified it as the discomfort many felt with his methods, but the more he’d thought about it, the less likely that seemed. Hanzabu had not seen him kill a damned thing, and the change in his demeanor had come about at a time when Tyrathan hadn’t actually done much of anything at all.

As a rule, Tyrathan liked to be straightforward when people got squeamish on him, explain himself as soon as possible to avoid letting any misgivings ferment. But this time was different. He could even make the situation worse by letting Hanzabu know he had noticed. He had to remember, too, that they weren’t exactly friends, and that the troll hadn’t chosen to assist a human by his own accord, but had been assigned to it by Bwonsamdi. And while Hanzabu’s loyalty to Bwonsamdi - not to mention his deal with the loa - protected Tyrathan to an extent, it was possible he was getting impatient enough to look for loopholes.

Tyrathan hadn’t yet made a decision either way when Hanzabu spoke up, breaking the awkward silence they’d lapsed into.

“Listen,” he said, “I realize it is none of my business, and I am probably better off not knowing too much, but I have to ask: why haven’t you given up yet? Even the Horde isn’t trying this hard to contact Vol’jin.”

Tyrathan exhaled. “The loa asked me the same thing during my trials.” He rubbed his neck. “I told them I was doing this because I wanted to, but that’s not much of an answer, is it?”

Hanzabu’s shoulders twitched in the shadow of a shrug.

Tyrathan took that as an invitation to keep talking. “I told you before that I missed him, and that’s not untrue, but it doesn’t even begin to describe it.” He squeezed his hands into fists, as though he could physically grasp the feeling he was trying to describe. “I’ve grieved before. I’ve regretted so many things that I’ve long since lost count. But this grief, this regret, it refuses to fade with time. Since the day Vol’jin died, I’ve been able to think of little else.” He looked Hanzabu in the eye. “His absence eats at me every day, and I don’t think it will ever pass. That’s why I can’t stop.”

Hanzabu was quiet for a moment, then shook his head. “Every time I get an answer out of you, I understand less.” He seemed a little more at ease, though.

Tyrathan was content to leave it at that for the moment. Perhaps Hanzabu had just wondered about his motivations. Perhaps it was something else, but now was not the time to dig into that. He went to bed.

The next morning, bright and early, he returned to his meditation spot and went right back to work, letting his awareness slip into the world of the spirits and beginning his search again.

It quickly became apparent that something was different from the day before, though. Yesterday, he’d found something that felt like Vol’jin, and followed it into the vision. Now, the ‘scent’, for a lack of a better word, was everywhere, and he couldn’t isolate a single trail to follow. It could have been encouraging, a sign that he was closer than before, except Vol’jin clearly wasn’t here, and Tyrathan could see no path forward. Scraps bearing Vol’jin’s spiritual scent drifted past him like gossamer on the air, and he reached for one. As it flowed through his fingers, the face of an old troll appeared to him. He looked kindly, though Tyrathan questioned this assessment as soon as it occurred to him. Trolls, as a rule, did not look kindly. This one, too, had a heavy brow and fierce yellow eyes, and yet Tyrathan couldn’t shake his impression of a warm, caring personality. As he pondered on this, the image changed, replaced by a different troll, a witch doctor somberly removing his ceremonial mask to reveal a sorrowful expression.

“Your father, Vol’jin…” the witch doctor said, ”he fought the sea witch, and he…”

“He gone beyond,” responded Vol’jin’s voice, as though Tyrathan had spoken the words himself. “He be with Bwonsamdi now, master Gad. I know it.”

The images were so faint it was barely even a vision, and though it was followed by a surge of emotions, those were muted as well. Tyrathan felt them nonetheless: acceptance, but with an enormous sense of loss and a vast grief bubbling just underneath the surface. 

_Later. Later. The tribe comes first._

Losing his grip on the memory felt remarkably like slipping on ice. One moment Tyrathan felt grounded, and the next he was flailing to keep his mental balance, to no avail. The vision drifted away from him, and he blindly grabbed for another.

This one was even more fragmented than the last, a blue-eyed orc smiled uncertainly at him before turning and trudging away as a massive brown orc stepped up to the spot the other one had vacated. Tyrathan felt disappointment, and anger.

This time, losing the vision took him out of his meditative trance altogether. He fell forward onto all fours, breathless, and scrambled to sort out what he had just seen, trying to piece it together. The death of Vol’jin’s father was straightforward enough, grief and all, but the other one…

He recognized Garrosh Hellscream, of course, and knew very well how little Vol’jin had thought of the brute of a Warchief. That likely made the other orc Thrall, Garrosh’s predecessor as Warchief and Vol’jin’s personal friend. The disappointment made sense, then, as did the anger. Yesterday’s vision could have been an amalgamation of Vol’jin and Zalazane’s memories, but these had to originate from Vol’jin, and Vol’jin alone.

Tyrathan was aware that he was tapping into something that was not for him to know. If he hadn’t liked Vol’jin delving into his memory of the Serpent’s Heart, his fumbling around the most awful points of Vol’jin’s life had to be worse for the troll, if he was aware it was happening. Still, frustrating as it was, he had no other methods to try, and so Tyrathan could do little but keep pursuing Vol’jin the only way he knew how, hoping eventually he’d get something more than a memory.

Tyrathan was still catching his breath when Bwonsamdi’s voice cut through his reverie.

“Ahh, you be plagued by doubt still, Tyrathan,” the loa said. “That’s no good.”

“I can’t help it,” said Tyrathan, too wrung out to comment on Bwonsamdi’s timely appearance. Had he been watching him try and fail this entire time? The thought irritated him, though he couldn’t pinpoint why.

Bwonsamdi wasn’t wrong about the doubt, though. It had always been one of Tyrathan’s weak points. He made decisions quickly and confidently, and always had, but was prone to blaming anything that went wrong on himself. Vol’jin’s more judicious nature had proven a fantastic counterbalance, one nothing and no one else had been able to match for Tyrathan before or since. What cruel irony it was that he could really have used Vol’jin’s help in his search for Vol’jin.

“Be better if you could,” said Bwonsamdi, getting his attention again. “If it was Vol’jin -”

“I don’t care what Vol’jin could have done!” Tyrathan snapped. “I keep telling you I’m not a troll; you cannot compare me to one who was born to do this!”

“Oh?” Bwonsamdi leaned forward until he was so close that had he had a nose, it would have been brushing Tyrathan’s. “Then what be it that Tyrathan Khort was born to do, hm?”

Tyrathan hesitated. He’d asked that question of himself enough times, when he’d wondered if killing was all he’d ever be good for. He’d thought he’d found the answer in Pandaria, in the easy grin of a troll who had reveled in battle as he did, but had not defined himself by it. Tyrathan studied his hands. What was it that Bwonsamdi had told him before? That there was more troll in him that he knew? He remembered Vol’jin saying something similar to him what felt like a lifetime ago, about how Tyrathan and the Pandaren they were fighting alongside came closer to what a troll was meant to be than the Zandalari did.

Fat lot of good that was doing him now.

“I don’t know,” Tyrathan answered wearily. “And I don’t know that it matters. Right now, this is what I _have_ to do. For my sake and for Vol’jin’s.” He sighed. “But I can’t do it without guidance.”

Bwonsamdi lifted a hand to his chin, an ominous glint in his eye. “How’d you like to make a bargain of it?”

Tyrathan paused, regarding Bwonsamdi through narrowed eyes. “What would you ask of me in return?”

“Once again, straight to the point!” Bwonsamdi slapped his knee, laughing. “I knew I was right about your potential.” He floated a slow circle around Tyrathan. “I get you the help you need, and when you find Vol’jin, you gonna do everything in ya power to bring him to me, where he belongs.”

On the surface, it sounded harmless enough a bargain. He’d only be fixing what had gone awry, after all. But his instincts objected. Supposing Vol’jin didn’t want that? Supposing he had avoided Bwonsamdi’s realm on purpose? If that was the case, he couldn’t agree to Bwonsamdi’s terms.

“I think I’ll just keep trying on my own,” he said.

Bwonsamdi clicked his tongue. “Suit yourself. If you change ya mind, you know where to find me.” In the blink of an eye, the loa was gone.

Tyrathan listened to the silence for some time, trying to center himself to enter the spirit world again. He was pretty sure he had one more try in him before he needed to take a break. A few deep breaths and he was among shadows once more, ready for the hunt. The situation therein hadn’t improved, but he was determined to figure something out.

This time, he did not reach blindly for anything that felt familiar. Instead, he focused on trying to remember Vol’jin exactly as he had known him, not just the scent, not just the voice, no mere visions from years past, but the fully realized person. As wise as he was fierce, as deadly as he was compassionate. This image he sent out, trying to find something to match it.

The scraps of Vol’jin flowed past him, each familiar but none of them the full picture, and he let them all go. Here, he heard a warm laugh. There, a fearsome battle cry. Not enough. Not _enough_.

But then he found something that felt different from the rest. It pulsed when he probed at it, and something within him answered in kind. Tyrathan reached out a hand, grasping the thread in a firm grip, and as soon as he did, a scene unfolded before his eyes.

He saw the high stone walls of the Shado-Pan Monastery, the floor littered with fresh bodies, Bwonsamdi’s presence thick in the air. And he saw himself, impaled on a mogu spear, smiling with blood-stained lips. He hadn’t realized he’d made for such a gruesome sight at the time.

Vol’jin and Taran Zhu were there too, of course, working to heal and free him, respectively. His past self lifted a shaky hand to Vol’jin’s cheek in a soothing gesture, his thumb drawing slow circles just behind the base of a tusk.

This wasn’t how it had happened.

Granted, Tyrathan’s memory of these moments was somewhat hazy - he _had_ been dying, after all - but if there was something he was sure he would have remembered, it was this. It made for a striking scene, to be sure. The dying comforting the distraught.

In his confusion, Tyrathan forgot to brace himself for the rush of emotion that always seemed to accompany these memories. It came in like a landslide, wrenching the vision from his grasp. Fear. Desperation. _Hurt_ over being abandoned over and over again.

It was only as he crashed back into his physical body and collapsed breathless to the ground that Tyrathan understood what a selfish thing he had almost done that day, giving in and accepting death. What he had thought of at the time as a fitting end to a life as violent as his had, from Vol’jin’s perspective, been nothing short of cruel. The latest in a long line of people leaving him.

And what lofty company Vol’jin was comparing him to in adding him to that list! A childhood friend, his own father, a _Warchief of the Horde_. Tyrathan hadn’t realized he’d meant so much to the troll - although the fact that Vol’jin had refused to let Bwonsamdi take him should definitely have been a clue.

Tyrathan took a long time to compose himself enough to get up. When he finally did, and rounded the wall to enter Zo'bal proper, he found Hanzabu chatting with Zam’cha the ghostly stablemaster.

“And how far is that, would you say?” Hanzabu was saying.

“About fifty paces,” Zam’cha responded apathetically.

“Ah,” said Hanzabu as he spotted Tyrathan. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

“What’s going on?” asked Tyrathan.

“It’s about what you said yesterday, about seeing memories,” Hanzabu said, then paused. “Speaking of, how did it go today?”

Tyrathan spread his hands. “More memories, I’m afraid.”

Hanzabu nodded. “I suspected as much. I think it’s because of Shadra.”

“What’s that?”

“Elortha no Shadra,” Hanzabu repeated. “The Silk dancer. Mother of Venom. The Mistress of Spies.” He enunciated each word carefully, as though explaining something obvious to a forgetful child.

“A loa?” Tyrathan searched his memory. Since passing his trials, he had become aware of several loa through sensing them in the vicinity, though few had deigned to speak to him so far. On Shadra, he drew a blank. “She hasn’t made herself known to me.”

“Well, she couldn’t have. She’s dead at the moment.” Hanzabu appeared to read something in Tyrathan’s expression, because he hastened to add. “It’s not the first time she’s been killed. She should be back in time. But the point is that though Shadra is gone, her children remain, and so does her web of secrets and memories. Usually, access to any of those would be granted or withheld at Shadra’s discretion, but I think that without her there to guard them, it’s possible you’ve… stumbled upon them.”

Tyrathan rubbed his temples. “Do you mean to tell me I’ve been chasing echoes?”

“It sounds like you might have. The Silk Dancer’s children are everywhere. It would be easier to find a path to Shadra’s collection than to a single, elusive spirit.”

Tyrathan sighed. “Figures.”

“I suppose I’ll hit the scrolls again,” said Hanzabu wearily. “See if I can find anything to help with this new problem.”

“Sure,” said Tyrathan, lifting his gaze to the blood moon that hung perpetually over the horizon and coming to a decision. “There’s something I need to do, too.” With that, he set out north.

The trek to the Necropolis wasn’t particularly taxing, but with his limbs already heavy from exerting himself with the memory chasing, Tyrathan felt like he might as well have been climbing a mountain. Still, he had to do this tonight. He had wasted enough time already.

The inner chamber of the Necropolis was empty and quiet when Tyrathan entered. Even the blue flames in the braziers around the pit were burning low, casting very little light.

“Bwonsamdi!” Tyrathan called into the empty air. “I am ready to bargain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, apologies for my slow writing. I am not dead and I know where I'm going with this, I promise.  
> Also, I want to share [this Tyrajin playlist I made on Spotify to help me write.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/11uQn8Rf0DN5RFBGGmfjcq?si=81Qi1elDTka9N1l65vh8LA)


	6. Forged Anew

Tyrathan returned to Zo’bal to find Hanzabu standing by the wall waiting for him. As he made to enter the shrine, the troll stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“You’ve made a new deal with Bwonsamdi, haven’t you?”

Tyrathan met his eyes evenly. “Yes, I have.”

Hanzabu exhaled in irritation and let his hand drop. “Truly, I do not know why I care, but you should be wary of relying too much on the loa to fix your problems. Ask too often, and a loa _will_ start asking too much of you in return.” He tilted his head down to give Tyrathan a somber look. “And you do not want to be caught in a bargain you can't fulfill.”

“You speak from experience?”

“No, thank the loa,” Hanzabu said with a tense huff. “But one does hear stories.”

Tyrathan glanced back at the Necropolis, then faced Hanzabu again. “If it makes you feel any better, this one wasn’t excessive. It was necessary.”

“They’re always _necessary_ ,” said Hanzabu with no small amount of derision. “Doesn’t mean they’re wise.”

“Well, you needn’t worry, said Tyrathan, pushing past him. “This was the last one.” He’d already told Bwonsamdi as much, anyway.

“Should I ask what you gained from it?”

Tyrathan rested a hand on the inn’s door frame and turned his head to look back at the troll, who was still facing in the Necropolis’ direction. “That remains to be seen,” he said. “Bwonsamdi said he would see what he could do, and that I am to be patient and stay in Zo’bal.”

Hanzabu turned his head slightly. “So you intend to just sit and wait?”

Tyrathan scrubbed a hand over his face. “For now, I intend to see how long I can sleep. What I do after that is a question for tomorrow.” With that, he entered the inn, leaving Hanzabu leaning against the wall, shaking his head.

-

Whatever Bwonsamdi’s promised aid was to be, it failed to materialize the next day, or the one after that. Tyrathan passed the time alternating between practicing his martial arts forms and taking brief excursions into the spirit world. It was during one of these meditative sessions, four days into his wait, that Hanzabu interrupted him by dumping an armful of scrolls at his feet.

“I went through everything one more time from a different angle,” Hanzabu said. “I don’t know if it’ll be of any real use, but I’ve picked out all the spells and rituals that could theoretically be used to make it look like a spirit has vanished.”

“And?”

“Well, read them!” Hanzabu snapped, gesturing impatiently at the scrolls. “Tell me if anything stands out to you.”

Tyrathan looked down at the pile in front of him, but made no move to pick any of them up. “Hanzabu,” he said, looking back up at the troll, “your scrolls are all in Zandali.”

“Yes? I know you speak it.”

“Speak, yes. Read, no.” Tyrathan nudged the scrolls away from himself. “I’m afraid you’ll have to do the honors.”

Hanzabu looked sheepish. “Oh,” he said. “Most trolls of any status are literate, so I suppose I assumed that since you speak the language…” He shook his head. “But I can’t read your silly human runes either, can I?” With a sigh, he sat down across from Tyrathan. “Very well, I will read them to you.”

He unrolled a scroll and cleared his throat. “This one is a sealing spell,” he said. “Its purpose is to trap a spirit with the body during the burial.” He turned the scroll around to show Tyrathan the accompanying drawing of a mummified troll inside an intricately decorated urn.

“The urn or casket is inscribed with the spell and sealed with a special wax mixed with the subject’s blood. So long as the seal remains whole, the spirit cannot leave. It was commonly used in the past to deny a spirit their rightful afterlife, or to keep dangerous spirits from wandering and causing harm.”

Tyrathan hummed. “You’re right that this sounds like a potential explanation for Vol’jin’s disappearance, but there is one flaw: he can’t have been sealed during the burial, or he couldn’t have been summoned like you said he was.”

“True,” said Hanzabu. “Let us move on, then.” He picked up a new scroll. “Okay, this one is a long shot, but here it is: a spell to bind two souls to one another. When performed, it allows for transferral of vitality from one party to another, and leaves a lasting link. Now, I don’t know this for a fact, but I _suppose_ that link could be used to summon and trap a spirit.” He rolled up the scroll and set it aside. “But in practice it’s highly unlikely. The spell takes a lot of power and gives little in return, which is why it’s forgotten magic.”

“Vol’jin was a powerful spellcaster himself, and knew many others,” Tyrathan said. “Isn’t it possible he performed this ritual with someone who later turned against him and would now want to hurt his spirit?” An image of the disastrous falling out between a shadow hunter and a witch doctor had sprung up in his mind and refused to leave.

“Well, _theoretically_ , sure,” Hanzabu conceded with a sigh. “But it’s not a marriage ceremony or a friendship pact. It’s an obscure, irreversible ritual with few real benefits. If you wanted to keep track of a loved one’s well being, sea stalks are a far easier and more reliable method, and you’d have to be really desperate to use it as a healing spell. Ah, now here’s a more plausible candidate.”

The scroll he now turned to face Tyrathan was a long one. He set it on the ground and unrolled the two remaining scrolls next to it. “These scrolls detail variations on the same theme: resurrection. This first one,” he tapped the first scroll with a finger, “is true resurrection; returning a spirit to its body and restoring its vitality. Then this one,” he pointed at the middle scroll, “returns the spirit to its body _without_ restoring the body to life.”

“Undeath,” Tyrathan murmured.

“Right. And this last one binds the spirit to a temporary vessel. All three are very similar, the main difference being in the potency of the spell ingredients and the power required.”

“Vol’jin was cremated, so I think we can rule out the first two options,” Tyrathan said. Ignoring Hanzabu’s incredulous 'how do you know that?', he picked up the third scroll to examine it. The scroll bore a large diagram of what Tyrathan assumed was the ritual circle associated with the spell. He absently traced the lines with one finger. “This one, however… could it be done without Bwonsamdi’s knowledge?”

“Since Vol’jin never came to Bwonsamdi in the first place, it probably could,” Hanzabu said. “Although if someone had gone through the trouble of giving Vol’jin’s spirit a new body to inhabit, someone would surely know. As a rule, people don’t bring dead tribal chieftains back to life for no reason, and keeping that body going for longer than a few days would take extra effort.”

Tyrathan sighed, rolling up the scrolls. “I can’t argue with your reasoning, but that puts us back in square one. Was that all the candidates?”

Hanzabu gathered up his scrolls. “All the ones I thought were worth consideration, at least. If you’d like me to read all of my collection to you, I can, but I don’t think that would get us anywhere.”

He stood up and went to put his scrolls away in the chest he’d dragged out to the courtyard for ease of access. Halfway across the shrine grounds, he tensed visibly for no discernible reason, but completed his trip, then turned around and returned to Tyrathan with stiff steps.

“Get up,” he hissed.

“What is it?”

“Just get up! there are two raptor riders on the road headed this way. Almost certainly Zandalari, and _most assuredly_ no one you’ll want to meet.” He pulled Tyrathan up by the arm. “Into the inn, quickly! They won’t have seen you yet.”

“What will you do if they want to stay?” Tyrathan protested as Hanzabu dragged him along.

“No one ever wants to stay.” Hanzabu shoved Tyrathan into the dilapidated building. Then he hesitated, one hand lingering on the doorframe. “But… just in case, keep your bow handy.”

“And what, shoot them if they get too close? Aren’t these your people?”

Hanzabu just stared for a few long seconds. “You are one funny human,” he finally said, shaking his head. “I’ll shout if you have to shoot. Until then, just stay quiet and out of sight.”

With that, he left Tyrathan to his hiding spot and headed for the gate to welcome the visitors. Tyrathan crouched by the inn’s only window to watch.

The riders were indeed Zandalari; two women on huge feathered raptors, one in armor not unlike what Tyrathan had seen on rank and file soldiers in Pandaria, the other wearing a rather more ornate affair, no doubt marking her as quite important. She also bore on her back a glaive much like the one Tyrathan had seen Vol’jin wield in Pandaria. A shadow hunter, then? Although he could swear Vol’jin had told him once that the Zandalari had no shadow hunters. Whatever the case, he decided it didn’t bode well.

“Welcome to Zo’bal,” Hanzabu greeted them in Zandali. “What brings you all the way to this humble shrine?”

“Are you the one called Hanzabu?” asked the more ornately dressed woman.

“I am indeed. And you are…?”

“General Rakera of the Zanchuli Council.” she jerked her head toward her companion. “This is Blaeguard Kaja.”

“Oh, General!” Hanzabu exclaimed, hastily dropping into a deep bow. “Forgive me, I did not recognize you.”

“At ease, civilian,” the General said, hopping off her raptor. She was tall even by Zandalari standards, and carried herself with an air of regality that put Tyrathan in mind of Khal’ak at her least murderous. “There is no need to grovel; you’ll find I am not like my predecessor.”

“Ah.” Hanzabu straightened, visibly relieved. “Still, it is not every day that I have guests of your rank. How can I be of service?”

“We seek a newly anointed shadow hunter here in Nazmir. We are told you can help find them.”

To his credit, Hanzabu’s friendly facade did not falter. He went into another bow - just a small one - and spread his hands. “I’m afraid I don’t associate with shadow hunters much, General. You might have better luck asking in Zul’jan. There are a few of them there.”

Rakera shook her head. “We were instructed to come to Zo’bal and speak to you specifically.”

“Still,” said Hanzabu, still deferential in both tone and body language, “unless you can give me a little more to go on, I’m afraid I cannot help you.”

General Rakera reached behind her head and unsheathed her glaive. In his hiding place, Tyrathan lifted his bow, ready to give aid if necessary, or else make a run for it - but she did not point her weapon at Hanzabu. Instead she grasped it with both hands and held it at arm’s length like one might a banner.

“Queen Talanji has received a vision!” she announced loudly as her gaze swept the area as though addressing a crowd. “This glaive is to be delivered to Bwonsamdi’s chosen shadow hunter. You need not be afraid, our orders are to not harm you.” 

Seeing the weapon unsheathed, Tyrathan sucked in a sharp breath. The glaive the General held was not just like Vol’jin’s - it was in fact the exact same one that his friend had wielded in the battle of the Shado-Pan monastery.

“The Queen herself was instructed by Bwonsamdi to have this delivered here?” Hanzabu asked. He sounded faint.

“Yes. She would not share the details of her vision, but the instructions were clear. We are to deliver the glaive to this shadow hunter’s hands and bring it back to Dazal’alor once its purpose has been fulfilled.”

Hanzabu hesitated for a moment, and Tyrathan knew the game was up even before he spoke. “All right,” Hanzabu finally said, “but I beg you, keep your orders in mind and stay calm.”

Rakera’s brows drew together in obvious perplexion, but after a moment she nodded in assent. Her silent companion crossed her arms.

Hanzabu nodded as well, then drew in a deep breath, sighed, and turned towards the inn. “You can come out,” he called in resigned Common.

For the briefest of moments, Tyrathan considered climbing out the hole in the inn’s back wall instead, and making a run for it, but soon discarded the idea. He’d come this far; it would do him no good to start doubting Bwonsamdi’s aid now. He left his bow leaning against the wall so as to not look too threatening, but kept the hunting knife strapped to his thigh. Then he braced himself and stepped outside.

Rakera's brows rose slightly at the sight of him, while her companion's drew down in a scowl.

"A human?" Rakera said with a note of surprise. She had also switched to Common.

“I’m afraid so,” Tyrathan said, careful not to get so far from the inn that he couldn’t make a lunge for his bow if it seemed necessary.

"In all honesty,” said Rakera cautiously, “by all the secrecy, I was expecting a blood troll. This is…"

"Worse," supplied Bladeguard Kaja, speaking up for the first time. She did not budge from her stance, however, so Tyrathan decided she wasn’t an immediate threat.

"Very strange," finished Rakera rather more diplomatically, though she too looked less than pleased.

Kaja turned to Hanzabu. “You would have us believe _this_ ,” she jabbed a finger at Tyrathan, ”is Bwonsamdi’s chosen? That this is a _shadow hunter_?”

Hanzabu wrung his hands. ”‘Chosen’ is a strong word,” he said. “But I assure you, he _is_ a shadow hunter.”

“If I may,” interrupted Tyrathan, taking a few careful steps towards the three trolls with his hands held out in front of him. “I know how this looks, but I assure you I am not here as a member of the Alliance. In fact, I could well lose my head if anyone back home ever found out about this.”

General Rakera regarded him silently for a long moment. “Then why are you here?” she finally asked.

“It is a part of the bargain I have made with Bwonsamdi. To receive his aid, I need to stay here.” he gestured at the glaive in Rakera’s hands. “I’ll wager you wouldn’t have brought that to Stormwind, for example.”

Rakera’s grip on the weapon in question tightened. “This is not just any weapon, human. Do you even know its significance?”

“I do. It belonged to Vol’jin of the Darkspear tribe, a renowned shadow hunter and the previous Warchief of the Horde.”

Rakera said nothing, but her expression was one of surprise. She returned the glaive to its sheath on her back, never breaking eye contact with Tyrathan.

In Rakera’s silence, Kaja stepped forward. “So you are more knowledgeable than the average human. That does not prove anything. How do we know you really have the loa’s favour?”

“You make a valid point, I wouldn’t be so quick to believe me, either.” Tyrathan said. He rubbed the back of his neck in thought. “I suppose there’s one thing I can show you that might help,” He lifted his left hand in front of himself, palm up, and with his right, took his hunting knife out of its scabbard. “Easy,” he said when Kaja reached for the sword at her hip. “I’m not threatening you.”

As all three trolls watched, Tyrathan brought the knife up to his upturned hand and drew the blade across his palm, slicing it open. Then he held his palm out to his audience so that they had a good view of the wound as it began to knit itself together.

General Rakera looked like she was about to say something, but closed her mouth when Kaja put a hand on her arm and leaned close.

“I do not trust this, Rakera,” she hissed in Zandali. “The last time the Alliance tricked us into coming to this accursed swamp, it cost the life of our king.”

“I haven’t forgotten, Kaja,” Rakera responded, not unkindly. “I do not like it either, but these are the orders we were given.”

“It’s not like you to follow orders blindly.”

“I’m not. If this is a ruse, it won’t be a successful one; capturing or killing just the two of us would not weaken the empire by much. But if it’s not, if this human is truly a shadow hunter, it is in the best interests of Zandalar for someone to have an eye on him.”

Kaja lowered her eyes, defeated. “You’re right. Just killing him would leave too many questions unanswered.”

Rakera turned to Tyrathan, who did his best to give no indication that he had understood the conversation. “Very well, human. We accept that you are the person we were sent to find.”

Tyrathan nodded.

“However,” Rakera continued, “before we hand the glaive to you, I want a real answer to my earlier question. What are you doing out here?”

Hanzabu inserted himself between Tyrathan and the two soldiers. “General, perhaps you and the Bladeguard should take a seat.” He gestured at the unlit fire pit. “You’ve had a long journey, and this conversation is only going to get stranger.”

The General and the Bladeguard glanced at each other, then at Hanzabu again, and nodded as one. Following the three trolls to the fire pit, Tyrathan wondered exactly what the relationship between the two newcomers was. He didn’t know what kind of title bladeguard was, but by her attire and the way she hung back while Rakera spoke, it was clear that Kaja was of a lower rank. And yet, when she addressed the General directly, she spoke as an equal, with no honorifics or deference - and stranger still, Rakera responded equally casually. Even if Rakera was, by her own assertion, more easygoing than whoever her predecessor had been, surely she couldn't be _this_ easygoing with all her subordinates.

Hanzabu scurried into the inn to bring out some food for their guests, which Kaja refused, but Rakera gracefully accepted, as well as a dusty bottle of wine to share between all of them. This, even Kaja accepted, though Tyrathan noted she only drank after witnessing Tyrathan and Hanzabu both take a sip from their cups.

“All right, human,” said Rakera, tearing off a piece of her dried mackerel. “Let us start with the basics. Who are you?”

“My name is Tyrathan Khort. I am a former soldier, though these days I suppose ‘adventurer’ or ‘mercenary’ would be a better description.”

“Are you with the Alliance?”

“No. Or not exactly. I am a member of the Alliance, yes, but for the moment, I'm acting in my own interests. Should the Alliance discover me here, I would likely be taken in as a traitor.”

Rakera’s brows rose slightly at that. “And what are those interests?”

Tyrathan took a deep breath. It had been difficult enough telling all this to Hanzabu, who he had come to think of as something akin to a friend. Revealing it to virtual strangers was almost unthinkable, but he had no other path forward. He exhaled. “I am trying to reach the spirit of Vol’jin of the Darkspear tribe.”

Both soldiers blinked, as though they doubted their ears. From the corner of his eye, Tyrathan saw Hanzabu watching them with tense attention.

“What on earth for?” Kaja at last said. She almost sounded offended.

“Originally I just wanted to speak with him, but this entire thing has snowballed out of control. Something is very wrong, and I fear he may be in danger. Bwonsamdi seems convinced I have what it takes to set things right, so here I am.”

“Compelling reasons,” Rakera said. “Or they would be for a troll. Why do _you_ care? What are your stakes in this?”

“Vol’jin was a friend. I would see him granted the afterlife he is due.”

“A friend?” Kaja sneered. “Why would a troll of such importance befriend a human?”

“Why would I make such a ridiculous claim if it wasn’t true?” Tyrathan countered. “Trust me, I know how it sounds. But it is the truth.”

At this, Rakera and Kaja both turned towards Hanzabu, who spread his hands and shrugged sheepishly in confirmation.

Rakera closed her eyes. She inhaled through her nose and released the breath through her mouth in a sigh, then opened her eyes again. “All right,” she said. “Then what is the glaive for?”

“That, I do not know. I only know that asked Bwonsamdi for help, and he sent you with the glaive.”

“Is there magic in it that will be of help to you?”

“It isn’t enchanted,” said Tyrathan. “At least, it wasn’t when it was made.”

Rakera’s eyes narrowed. “How would you know that?”

Tyrathan hesitated. He wasn’t sure how much information he could trust these strangers with, but he couldn’t very well refuse to answer. He swallowed. "I was there when this weapon was made. I knew the pandaren who crafted it."

“Pandaren?” Rakera looked down at the glaive, which she’d set down by her side. “It looks like a troll’s weapon.”

“It should. A pandaren made it for Vol’jin to wield, and it served him well against -” he paused, remembering who he was talking to. “- his enemies,” he finished awkwardly.

Unfortunately, his fumble didn’t go unnoticed. Kaja had gone very still listening to him, her eyes narrowing further with every word. Now they opened wide. 

“You are Vol’jin’s human,” she said in a disbelieving tone.

“Excuse me?” said Tyrathan.

She stood up, her shoulders squared. “When Zul left Zandalar after the Great Cataclysm, he took with him an army of fools gullible enough to believe the island was lost. Most of them never returned.” Her eyes flashed. “But those who did brought back stories of their clashes with the Horde, the Alliance, and the pandaren. Some were completely ludicrous, like the one about how the famed Vol’jin of the Darkspear stood against a Zandalari assault five hundred trolls strong with only a handful of pandaren and one human to aid him. How he slew the commander heading the assault with his bare hands.”

“Kaja…” Rakera warned.

Kaja shook her head. “It’s fine, Rakera,” she said softly before turning her attention back to Tyrathan. “As the story goes, the human gave his life to save Vol’jin.”

Tyrathan kept quiet, unsure if there was anything he could say to diffuse the situation.

Kaja snorted to herself. “Absolute nonsense, I thought. But here is a human who was in Pandaria with Vol’jin, and it would be too much of a coincidence if it wasn’t the same one. You are Vol’jin’s human. You must be.”

Tyrathan cleared his throat, setting down the cup in his hands so he could fold them. “Yes. That was me, though I have to say I don’t much care for the moniker.”

Kaja looked triumphant to hear the admission. “What really happened, then? Clearly the story is embellished.”

“No, what you’ve said sounded pretty accurate,” Tyrathan said. “We were thirty-three against five hundred. We didn’t expect to survive, and most of us didn’t, but we took down as many as we could. I did very nearly die, and Vol’jin did kill the commander, after which the remaining attackers fled.” He studied Kaja’s face, and seeing the way her expression tightened at the mention of Khal’ak, it clicked. “You knew her.”

She inhaled sharply, looking affronted. “I…” She stopped, seemed to hold her breath for a second, then lifted her chin. “Excuse me.” she grunted and turned suddenly, stalking off beyond the walls of Zo'bal with brisk steps. Rakera hurried after her and, after a beat, so did Tyrathan, ignoring the way Hanzabu raised his brows at him.

The two hadn’t gone far. Tyrathan found them stopped at the water's edge, standing close together. Kaja had buried her face in her hands, taking deep breaths as Rakera held her gently by the shoulders.

“I’m fine, Rakera,” Kaja said in Zandali, sliding her hands through her hair in exasperation. “I just had to get away. For a moment I feared that I might strike him.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” said Rakera. “I understand how you feel, but I do need you to control yourself.”

“I will.” Kaja made a sound between laughter and a sob. “I know Khal’ak brought her fate on herself. Zul was a traitor and a fool, and all who followed him had their minds filled with the same poison. I should be happy I didn't have to end her myself, but -”

“It would be easier to lay the blame at someone else's feet,” Rakera said. “I know, my love.” She put a hand on Kaja’s cheek and touched their temples together, gently rubbing skin against skin. Kaja relaxed into the touch, and Tyrathan decided to retreat to give them some privacy.

That, and his own temple had begun to burn with the memory of a touch he had not understood at the time. Looking at those two, however, it had dawned on him that there was no way to construe the gesture as anything but intimate. Romantic, even.

He returned to the shrine, to another mildly disapproving look from Hanzabu. “I think it’s best to give them a moment.”

“I could have told you that,” said Hanzabu drily. He fell silent for a moment while Tyrathan sat back down, as if weighing his words before speaking up again. “That was an interesting decision you made back there, cutting yourself to convince them.”

“I’m just glad it did convince them,” Tyrathan said.“I could think of nothing else to prove myself.”

“There are potions that cause regeneration too, you know,” said Hazabu. “I think they were more convinced by the fact you knew to attribute yours to the loa.”

“Just so long as it worked, I guess.” After a moment of thought, Tyrathan leant forward with his elbows on his knees. “While those two are out of earshot, can I ask you something?”

Hanzabu eyed him suspiciously. “Yes?”

“Earlier, they said your king was dead,” Tyrathan began cautiously. “By Alliance hands, from the sound of it. Is that true?”

Hanzabu inhaled through his nose, looking away. “They spoke the truth. Your people made a feint attack here in Nazmir some weeks ago, drawing our military away from Zuldazar, and allowing the bulk of their forces to attack Dazal’alor and murder King Rastakhan.” The succinct explanation and his tense tone made it clear it wasn’t a subject he wanted to discuss in any detail.

“Oh,” said Tyrathan. Then, because he felt he had to say something more: “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“No you’re not,” said Hanzabu, keeping his gaze on the unlit fire. “It was a victory for your side.”

“Doesn’t feel like my side from out here,” said Tyrathan. He raised his hands when Hanzabu gave him a sidelong look. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want the Alliance to _lose_ the war, it’s just… well, I don’t have to agree with everything my side does. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Hanzabu turned his head and gave him another of those perplexed looks he tended to employ when the subject of Tyrathan’s relation to Vol’jin came up, like he couldn’t fathom a human caring about a troll’s life or feelings.

Tyrathan cleared his throat. “I have to ask, though, if a considerable number of Alliance forces and the majority of Zandalar’s protectors clashed in Nazmir, how did none of it reach Zo’bal, and when did you learn it had happened?”

“Actually,” said Hanzabu, straightening up, “the Zandalari army passed by very close to here. You were just... asleep at the time.”

Tyrathan gave an incredulous huff. “I think the sounds of a literal army marching by would have woken me.”

“Well,” Hanzabu said at length, picking at his fingernails, “I say asleep, because that’s what it looked like on the outside. But it must have been one of your trials, because you didn’t wake for nine days. I think the loa may have kept you out of it all on purpose.”

Tyrathan blinked. He’d had no idea he’d missed several days during his trials - though of course in the swamp there wasn’t much to keep track of time by. More alarmingly, he’d been unconscious for several days while in the presence of a troll whose monarch had just been murdered by humans. He shifted awkwardly in his seat. “I suppose I should thank you for not killing me in retaliation while I was unconscious.”

Hanzabu spread his hands. “What good would that have done? I have a bargain to fulfill, and if there’s one human I know could not have been involved, it is you.”

“Still,” said Tyrathan. “Not everyone would take such a reasonable stance.”

Hanzabu shrugged. “Not everyone would be risking their deal with Bwonsamdi, either.”

They sat in silence until Rakera returned with Kaja, who appeared to have calmed down considerably. Watching them retake their seats, Tyrathan felt an unexpected pang of envy. What they had, he could now never have.

Rakera coughed. “Well, Hanzabu,” she said. “You were right. The conversation got much stranger than I could have anticipated. But Kaja and I are in agreement that the human’s story seems to add up.” She unsheathed Vol’jin’s glaive and held it out to Tyrathan. “I will allow you the use of the glaive.”

“Thank you,” said Tyrathan. He reached out and wrapped his fingers around the grip.

As soon as he did, he felt a small burst of energy from it. It wasn’t a lot, but it rippled through all of him, and something unidentifiable within him resonated with it, the feeling starting somewhere in his gut and rising into his throat. The world around him grew hazy and dim, replaced with the eerie stillness he’d come to associate with the Shadowlands. He concentrated his mind on the pulsating energy, now beating in tandem with his heartbeat, and a pinprick of light appeared at the upper tip of the glaive. It rapidly grew larger and brighter until it enveloped him and, paradoxically, left him in darkness.

It wasn’t quite a void. There were shapes there, and shadows, but they didn’t seem to come together into any kind of coherent shape. After a moment, Tyrathan realized they were all slowly moving, flowing in one direction like a lazy stream. He turned to follow it, and stopped cold.

He’d thought he’d been sure before, first when the loa had tricked him during the trials, and then again when he'd chased after echoes, but there was no mistaking it this time. As he stared at the apparition in front of him, he knew with a certainty such as he’d never experienced before: here, at last, was Vol’jin himself.

But even so, he looked unusual. The face was right, sure enough, but his style of dress was atypical to say the least. Wearing a long sleeveless robe, with a multitude of amulets hanging from his neck, belt and from long leather straps wound around each wrist, he looked more like a poor caricature of a witch doctor than he did a shadow hunter. Here, a metal disk with the symbol of the Horde etched onto it glinted atop the pendants. There, the same stylized depiction of Bwonsamdi’s head that hung above the door of the Necropolis dangled from a wrist - and a myriad of other marks and symbols, the significance of most of which Tyrathan didn’t know and couldn’t begin to guess. Vol’jin’s eyes were half lidded, and though they moved, they did not seem to be focused on anything.

Tyrathan reached out and stopped short, thwarted by a force he could not see. He tried to call out, but no sound came from his mouth. He pushed harder, trying to call on whatever power the loa had bestowed him to help him push through, but it was as though the air solidified around his hand.

As a last resort, Tyrathan threw his entire metaphysical weight against the invisible barrier. He did not get through, but behind it, Vol'jin blinked once, twice, as though shaken out of deep thought, but did not appear to notice Tyrathan, and soon resumed staring at nothing. Beyond that, nothing happened.

Tyrathan ground his teeth. Every step forward, it seemed, revealed a new obstacle. To be so close, and still entirely cut off was maddening.

Before he had the opportunity to try anything else, he was violently torn out of the vision. Suddenly back in his physical body, Tyrathan stumbled, for a moment positive he was going to fall over. Through some miracle, he found the strength to keep himself upright, though he was left gasping for air.

“What _was_ that?” Rakera demanded. She too looked winded, and she was holding the glaive, which Tyrathan no longer had a grip on, close to herself. Tyrathan thought she must have yanked it out of his hands and in doing so broken the trance.

“Did you see it?” Tyrathan demanded.

“I didn’t see anything,” said Rakera, “but did I feel something. For a moment it felt like the glaive had a pulse.”

"Well, _I_ saw him," Tyrathan panted. "I saw Vol’jin. The glaive revealed the path to me."

Rakera hesitated only for a moment, then shoved the glaive at him. “Then do it again and let’s get this over with.”

Tyrathan did not take hold of the weapon. “I will need a moment to recover,” he said. “And even then I don’t know if I can actually do anything. Some strange force had a hold on him, and I couldn’t get through.”

Kaja gave a frustrated growl. “Did we come here for nothing?”

“The glaive did help,” Tyrathan hastened to say. “I’m just not all the way there yet. I’m not strong enough to get through to him.”

“There are ways of boosting your spiritual power for a short while,” said Rakera. “Perhaps you could ask the loa. Or pilfer some mojo flasks from the blood trolls. I’m not above raiding their settlements, if that’s what it takes.”

Tyrathan nodded wearily, taking a seat by the firepit. “Okay. That would solve one problem. But what am I supposed to do once I break through? I have to assume the window of opportunity won’t be very large.”

“Don’t look at us,” said Kaja. “You’re the shadow hunter.”

They lapsed into a tense silence, each embroiled in their own thoughts. Tyrathan picked up his forgotten cup and drained the rest of the wine.

After a long while, Hanzabu cleared his throat. “Well, there is something we could try,” he said cautiously. Noticing that everyone’s attention was now focused on him, he shrunk back a little. Glancing from one face to another, he nervously unfurled a scroll and turned it so everyone could see it. In the upper corner was a diagram of a ritual circle.

“Isn’t that -” Tyrathan began.

“Resurrection!” exclaimed Rakera, who had leaned in to read the text. “Are you out of your mind? Magic like that comes with a hefty price, not to mention what the Queen would say if she heard about it!”

Tyrathan noted her ‘if’ with interest. Was the General not planning on including the more unpleasant details of this in her report to the crown?

“Not true resurrection!” Hanzabu croaked, cowering behind his scroll like a shield. “This would only be tying the soul down in an artificial body for a short time.”

“To what end?”

“If we can get the spirit to stay in one place for just a few hours, we can make use of his own knowledge of the situation to help us help him.” Hanzabu fumbled for another scroll he’d been holding under his arm and shook it open. “And if all else fails, our resident shadow hunter can perform a ritual to bind the spirit to Zo’bal, and then we’ll have all the time in the world to figure it out.”

“I would prefer not having to resort to the binding,” interjected Tyrathan.

Far more comfortable to be talking back to Tyrathan than the General, Hanzabu rolled his eyes so hard his entire body moved with it. “Everyone would prefer that, that’s why it would be a last resort. I sure don’t want some chieftain’s spirit bound here and bringing gawkers, he won’t want to be bound here, and Bwonsamdi _really_ won’t like it.”

At the mention of the loa, Tyrathan gave a sigh. “Speaking of Bwonsamdi, I think we’re going to have to bring this plan to him for approval if I am to ask him for a power boost.”

Hanzabu stiffened, following Tyrathan’s gaze to the ever-present silhouette of the Necropolis. He swore softly in Zandali.

-

It took some debating, but in the end the four of them agreed that temporary resurrection really was the best option available to them. And so it was that three trolls and a man entered Bwonsamdi’s temple, Tyrathan and Hanzabu with a confidence born from familiarity with the loa in question, and Rakera and Kaja with the caution of those who had chosen different loa to bargain with.

"Back so soon?" Bwonsamdi's voice chuckled from the darkness, before the loa himself appeared before them. "I thought you were done making deals," he said to Tyrathan with a smug smirk.

"I know what I said," Tyrathan sighed. "But new roadblocks keep appearing."

Bwonsamdi floated closer, steepling his skeletal fingers. "So what be it that you be wanting from me now?"

"We need your aid to perform a resurrection ritual."

Bwonsamdi sucked at his teeth. "Now, I don't know if I like the sound of that. You were supposed to deliver Vol'jin into my care."

"This would be temporary, just so we can keep him safe while we figure out our next step," Tyrathan said. "The glaive you sent helped me find Vol’jin, but he is enveloped in a dark energy that I don’t have the power to breach. We can’t afford to leave him there."

Bwonsamdi looked thoughtful. "Go on."

"I’m sure that if I had more power just for a moment, it would be enough to break Vol’jin free from whatever force holds him for long enough to bind him to a temporary vessel."

"So you be needing a mojo boost. Done. I ain’t even gonna ask for anything new in return. Just call on me when you need it, and make sure to keep the bargains you’ve already made."

Tyrahan gave a grim nod, and Hanzabu took the opportunity to step forward and speak. "Mighty Bwonsamdi, the ritual we mean to perform asks for blood or flesh from family. Where might we find someone related to Vol’jin of the Darkspear?"

"Ohh, that be easier said than done," Bwonsamdi rumbled. "Vol'jin had no children, and his parents been in my care for a long time. Neither got the luxury of a grave, so the bodies be long gone."

"He had no other family?"

"Well, he had a brother, but he be dead too." Bwonsamdi rubbed a tusk with bony fingers. "Might be there's still something left of him, but old Yenniku lived and died with the Bloodscalp in Stranglethorn. Ain't nobody know where the body ended up."

"And we definitely do not have the time to go searching the entirety of Stranglethorn Vale," said Tyrathan to Hanzabu.

Hanzabu waved a hand in the air. “That’s all right. There are ways to subsitute the family component. Would have made it easier, that’s all.”

“You got all you needed from old Bwonsamdi, then?”

Tyrathan looked at Hanzabu, who gave a hurried nod.

"You best start producing results," said the loa. “There be a limit to me patience.” With that he made a shooing motion, ushering the visitors from his temple.

As the four made their way back to Zo’bal, Tyrathan fell into step next to Hanzabu. “You never mentioned that part about blood from family before,” he hissed. “Exactly what kind of materials does this ritual require?”

“Ideally, a blood contribution either from the deceased or their family, but in a pinch, a close friend will do.” He gave Tyrathan a meaningful look.

"I’ve seen troll resurrection rituals," Tyrathan said. "They drained the ‘contributors’ from all of their blood. I can’t perform the ritual if I’m dead."

"That’s for a proper resurrection, the kind that sticks," said Hanzabu, unperturbed. "For what we're about to do, a small amount of fresh blood will suffice. You can breathe easy, human."

When they reached the shrine, Tyrathan and the two soldiers stood back as Hanzabu set about preparing the ritual. He brought out his chalks and his powders and began to copy the complicated ritual circle design from the resurrection scroll onto the flagstones. At several points he paused to refer back to the scroll, then usually erased a section of what he’d already drawn and redrew it slightly differently.

As they watched Hanzabu work, Kaja addressed Tyrathan. “You do realize, don’t you,” she said, “that by asking Bwonsamdi to lend you his power, you’re placing your own soul in his care when you die?”

“My soul is already marked for Bwonsamdi either way,” said Tyrathan “You remember how the story you heard of the battle of the monastery said the human died? By all rights, that’s what should have happened. Bwonsamdi had a hold on me already, and it was only Vol’jin’s intervention that saved me then.”

A silence fell over the group, and Tyrathan lifted his gaze to find all three trolls staring at him. even Hanzabu had paused in his work, halfway through a stroke.

“You lie,” said Kaja, but the accusation had a weary edge to it, as though she’d spent all her outrage for the day already.

Tyrathan shook his head. “I swear to you it is the truth.”

“No troll would strike such a bargain with Bwonsamdi lightly. Least of all a shadow hunter,” said Rakera. She too looked like she couldn’t wrap her head around the idea.

“And for Bwonsamdi to agree,” Hanzabu added, resuming his work, “he must have known he could hold it over Vol’jin’s head for a long time.”

“I’m beginning to see that,” Tyrathan said.

Hanzabu finished the circle in complete silence. Next, he filled several bowls with what Tyrathan assumed was the same incense he’d used to initiate Tyrathan’s shadow hunter trials and placed them at several points inside the design. At the center of the circle, there were two smaller circles, each about three feet across. Into the center of one of them, Hanzabu deposited more incense, and on top of that a fistful of dirt from just outside the shrine, as well as Vol’jin’s glaive.

Having done all that, Hanzabu motioned for Tyrathan to take his place inside the other empty circle and went to ignite the incense bowls, but not the incense at the center. He then positioned Rakera, Kaja, and finally himself at equidistant points around the ritual circle.

“All set,” he finally said. “In a moment, I will begin a chant. you two,” he looked at Rakera and Kaja, “are to follow my lead, and you,” he nodded at Tyrathan, “will take up the glaive and use its edge to cut your hand like you did before. Let what blood comes out soak into the earth, then go find Vol’jin of the Darkspear again. Bring him back here with you.” He clapped his hands together. “Everybody ready? Good. Here we go.”

Hanzabu began his chant, and the other two soon joined in. Tyrathan, too, did as he was bid. He ignored the pulse that emanated from the glaive as soon as he took hold of it, made a cut across his palm and held his hand over the dirt until the wound regenerated. Then he held the glaive with both hands and allowed it to pull his spirit to Vol’jin’s again.

The dark place was much the same as before, with the flowing shadows coalescing around Vol’jin, who still stood still, staring ahead and seeing nothing. Tyrathan reached for him and, predictably, was thwarted by the same force as before. So he turned inward, finding that part of him that connected to the loa, and called for Bwonsamdi to aid him.

Nothing happened. Tyrathan was admittedly not very practiced at calling the loa, which is why he preferred to go directly to Bwonsamdi’s temple to commune with him, but he knew the connection was there. He sent out another call, and waited for a small eternity for any response.

Nothing.

He was wasting time he didn’t have. If he couldn’t reach Bwonsamdi, he would just have to find the necessary power in himself. It was no longer a question of whether or not he could; he only knew he must. He planted his feet - not that there was really any ground, here, but it felt right - and reached for Vol’jin with both hands. As before, he did not get far, but he kept leaning into the motion, willing every ounce of power he could wring out of himself into his fingertips. He thought he could feel the barrier giving way, ever so slightly, and redoubled his efforts.

 _Come on, come on,_ he thought desperately to himself. To Bwonsamdi, if he was able to hear him. To anything at all that might be able to hear.

A tingling sensation appeared at the base of his spine. It pulsed, and Tyrathan felt something burst within. A warmth spread through him, concentrating in his reaching hands. The shadows _cracked_. He wasn’t through yet, but behind the barrier, Vol’jin’s eyes flew wide open and he lurched forward. 

Whatever power Tyrathan had tapped into seemed to have reached it apex. He could see a white light shining through the cracks he’d made in the reality of this place, but the barrier still held. However, Vol’jin was moving now, even if it didn’t look like he was fully aware of what was happening. His nostrils flared and he was glancing around wildly, jostling the many charms and pendants that dangled from his person. Tyrathan wished he could call out to him, but there was still no sound in this strange near-void.

Without warning, the barrier gave away. The shadowy surroundings shattered and rained down around them like shards of glass. Finally freed from the shadows, and finally able to see Tyrathan, the spirit of Vol’jin stood stock still, staring at him. Eyes wide, his body slid as if by itself into a battle stance.

“What be this now?” Vol’jin growled. “Illusions? Trickery?” 

Tyrathan let his arms fall to his sides. “No trickery, Vol’jin. It’s me.”

Vol’jin ignored his words. “Why him, though? Nobody should know...” he trailed off, gaze wandering to the side before it snapped back to Tyrathan with a renewed ferocity. “Something been prodding at my memories for days. Was it you, looking for a face to wear? Picking the one you thought gonna hurt the most?”

“Vol’jin, I- “

“It be a good choice, I admit. Zalazane never woulda worked, his betrayal be too great, too long ago. Never gonna trust again. But the man…”

“Are you avoiding my name because you think I don’t know it? I am Tyrathan Khort, Alliance soldier and your friend.”

Vol’jin’s eyes tightened. He still hesitated, but his fingers twitched on the shaft of a spectral glaive that had appeared in his hand, and Tyrathan made his choice. He lunged forward just as Vol’jin began to bring the glaive up, and caught the weapon under one arm. With his free hand, he grasped one of Vol’jin’s tusks, forcibly turning the troll’s head to face him. It left him open to any number of attacks Vol’jin might try, but it was a calculated risk.

Vol’jin snarled. “You be very brave, or very foolish to be grabbing a troll by the tusk.”

Tyrathan couldn’t help but crack a smile. “You know I’m both.” 

The strange energy pulsed within him once more, and he felt an echo of it emanate from Vol'jin's being. Tyrathan let go of the tusk and grabbed for the source, hidden underneath Vol'jin's many pendants. His hand came back wrapped around what appeared to be a piece of weathered wood, slightly rounded on one side and splintered on the other, like it had been broken off from something larger. It was attached to a leather cord that went around Vol'jin's neck.

On the smooth side, a crudely carved pandaren symbol. The Fireship.

He recognized his own handiwork, the mark he had left on a wooden post in Orgrimmar so long ago. He looked back up at Vol’jin, who stared back at him in wide-eyed surprise. A three-fingered hand enveloped Tyrathan’s, holding the pendant. Tyrathan realized the glaive he had been holding on to had blinked out of existence, so he used his newly freed hand to grab the back of Vol’jin’s neck and pull him into an embrace. Vol’jin allowed it.

"You're in danger here,” Tyrathan murmured into the troll’s long ear. “Won't you let me bring you home?"

As soon as he said it, he wanted to correct himself. It wasn't Vol'jin's home or his own that he intended to take him to. But Vol’jin let out a soft sigh and pulled away slightly. He nodded and something about him relaxed - although ‘relax’ wasn't really the right word. It was more like he became unmoored, somehow. Free for Tyrathan to pull away with him.

And so Tyrathan did.

He released his hold of the pendant and clasped Vol’jin’s wrist instead. Vol’jin’s fingers closed around his forearm in reciprocation. Tyrathan visualised his physical body, an unmoving anchor to which his incorporeal self was tethered, and used the weight of it to pull the both of them toward it and the ritual circle.

The sensation was not unlike falling from a great height. What began as a soft movement soon accelerated into a wild plunge, picking up more speed by the second. He could feel his grip on Vol’jin beginning to slip. flailing slightly, he managed to bring his other hand to join the first one.

Tyrathan crashed back into his physical body with such force that he was thrown backwards by it. With great effort, he struggled back onto his feet. When the fog of the trance lifted from his vision, and his eyes focused again, Tyrathan saw a figure lying curled up in the middle of the ritual circle that hadn’t been there before.

His stomach dropped at the sight.

Far from the vivid blue of a jungle troll, the skin was a warm brown, and devoid of fur. It was obvious at a glance that what he was looking at was a human.

Kaja was the first to react. She snarled, grabbing Tyrathan by the front of his tunic. "What have you tricked us into?" She demanded, and if she'd had her sword, Tyrathan was sure his head would have rolled.

Tyrathan raised both of his hands in front of himself. "No tricks, I swear! I don't know what went wrong either!"

The mysterious human stirred, unfolding long, sinewy limbs and shaking out a veritable mane of ginger hair. His face came into view at last, and it was bearded and utterly unfamiliar to Tyrathan.

As they watched, the man just stood there looking down at himself. He raised his hands in front of his face and inspected them carefully. Then he brought both of them to his face, slowly feeling it over. It was a long while before he appeared to notice that he had an audience. When he did, though, his eyes immediately locked with Tyrathan's.

"If this is a joke, Tyrathan Khort," he growled, "it be a poor one."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll tell you something, I'm glad Shadowlands isn't coming out tomorrow, because I don't need any more distractions from finishing this.


	7. Anchor

Tyrathan stared dumbfounded at the human-shaped vessel that, apparently, now housed Vol’jin’s spirit. He was distantly aware of Kaja releasing her grip on his tunic. Vol’jin, meanwhile, glared silently down at himself, clearly displeased with the situation.

" _That_ is Vol'jin?" Kaja's asked in an astonished whisper. "How?"

“We can fix this, we can fix this!” Hanzabu was already running up to them, Rakera trailing behind him at a more leisurely pace. He held his arms out as if to signal for everyone to stay put. “I think I know what went wrong.”

All heads turned expectantly to him.

Hanzabu took a moment to clear his throat. Then he inhaled in the manner of a schoolteacher preparing to start a lesson. “All right. You all know about half-breeds, yes? You know how the child of a troll and an elf, for example, doesn’t look exactly like a troll _or_ an elf, on account of being of mixed blood?”

Everyone nodded.

“Well, there is no troll blood in this!” He gestured emphatically at Vol’jin’s human form. 

Tyrathan snapped his fingers. “ _That’s_ why the ritual specifies blood from family or a close friend! It didn’t occur to whoever wrote it down that the friend might be of a different race.” 

He looked Vol’jin’s new form over. Now that he knew what to look for, he did see something of Vol’jin in it. The mouth was wide, though of course no tusks protruded from the sides, and the nose was long and the brow heavy. He was still taller than Tyrathan, too, though not by nearly as much as his real body had been. Sure enough, there was a troll shape under there, straining against the constraints of what a human body could be.

“Although...” he said, “if the blood determines the body, shouldn’t he look at least a little bit like me, since it was all my blood?”

“He does!” Kaja exclaimed. “Small teeth, no fur. Soft human face. Just like you.”

“Anyway,” Hanzabu continued. “As I was saying, we can fix this. The problem is a lack of troll blood, and we obviously have access to that, so -”

“You got Zandalari blood,” Vol’jin cut in.

Hanzabu blinked, looking at Vol’jin as though he only now realized the resurrected individual might wish to be included in the conversation. “ _Granted_ ,” he said with audible exasperation, “but that is still much closer to what you’re supposed to be than human.” 

“It be a fake body either way. Might as well be this.”

Hanzabu looked mildly offended. “Suit yourself,” he sniffed, drawing himself up. “But it would not be complicated to do. We already have the circle.”

Rakera grabbed his shoulder. “That is all beside the point. Human or troll is irrelevant; how long will it last?”

Hanzabu fumbled for the ritual scroll in one of his pockets and unfurled it for Rakera to see. “Up to three days.” He pointed to the relevant part. “Though it can be stretched to two weeks with some additional spellwork.”

“With any luck, the three days will be enough time to figure this out,” Tyrathan said.

“And time enough that it can wait until tomorrow,” said Rakera. “It is late. I propose we retire for the night, and tackle the next step once we have rested.”

Kaja touched Rakera’s arm. “Rakera, do we really need to be here for what comes next? The glaive’s purpose had been fulfilled. Shouldn’t we return to Zuldazar?”

Rakera bent her head towards her. “You may be right. The less we witness here, the less I will have to explain to the Queen,” She rubbed her neck. “Then again, the report is already going to sound ludicrous, and I’m reluctant to leave without knowing how this ends.”

Kaja gave a small smile. “In other words, you’re curious. I am, too. I just hoped you’d have more sense than I.”

“Then we stay,” said Rakera. “To sate our curiosity, and to see that our mission bears fruit.”

“Sound plan,” said Hazabu. “The inn has seen better days, but I think with some rearranging, I can make room for two, er,” he glanced at Vol’jin, “three more under what remains of the roof.”

“Not for me,” said Vol’jin. "I am not tired.”

“You will be. I’ll just set up a bed for you next to his, shall I?” He nodded at Tyrathan.

“I think I’ll stay up for a while longer, myself,” said Tyrathan. “There’s a few things Vol’jin and I need to talk about.”

Hanzabu shrugged. “As you please.” He nodded at Vol’jin. “Do you think he’ll be needing clothes for it?”

Tyrathan paused, glancing back at Vol’jin. Even in the human body, Vol’jin carried himself with such relaxed confidence that Tyrathan had actually forgotten he’d been completely nude this entire time.

“If you be having something to spare, it would be appreciated,” said Vol’jin, though outwardly he still seemed unbothered.

It had the makings of a verbal standoff, Tyrathan realized. A Zandalari condescending to a Darkspear, and the Darkspear refusing to show even a shred of deference.

“I’m sure I’ll find something,” Hanzabu finally said, retreating into the inn.

He emerged a few moments later with a faded kilt that had clearly sat folded up at the bottom of some chest for some time, judging from the musty smell and the way the creases where it had been folded refused to straighten out. Fortunately humans were proportionally wider at the hips than trolls, so the fit was acceptable on Vol’jin’s human form. What was slightly more problematic was the length of the hem; what would, on a Zandalari, be shin-length dragged slightly on the ground on Vol’jin, even as tall as he was for a human.

“It’ll do,” Vol’jin said. “I ain’t heading into battle.”

With Vol’jin clothed, the three Zandalari turned in for the night, and Tyrathan led Vol’jin out through Zo’bal’s north entrance, intending to go just far enough not to be overheard by the others. The high tide had rolled in, the edge of the ocean lapping lazily at the shrine’s northern wall. The path leading to the Necropolis was elevated, presumably to keep it above water at all times, but the ravages of time - or possibly the Great Cataclysm - had caused the middle to collapse at some point, so while the collapse was simple enough to traverse at low tide, during high tide, the path was cut off. Tyrathan sat down at the edge of the collapse, motioning for Vol’jin to do the same.

“How does it feel?”

“The body?” asked Vol’jin, who had been feeling his teeth with his thumb. “Fragile. Maybe a little stronger than I felt when I walked in your skin, but nothing to be comparing to a troll.”

“If it’s that bad, why did you refuse Hanzabu’s offer to change it?”

Vol’jin snorted. “I be Darkspear, not Zandalari, and I got no desire to be pretending otherwise. Besides,” he grinned, wide and toothy, and almost looked like himself for a second. “It be getting under their skin. To them, I refused an unimaginable gift.”

Tyrathan laughed. “That’s just like you, not letting a Zandalari think you’ve admitted their superiority.”

“I’ll be admitting it when I meet one who really be superior.” Vol’jin’s smile faded. “Not that I be meeting many people now.”

“No,” said Tyrathan, who had also momentarily forgotten that the current arrangement was temporary. “I suppose not.”

“I see you been busy making friends, though,” Vol’jin remarked, jerking his head back in the general direction of Zo'bal. “How’d all that come to be?”

“I’d tell you it’s a long story, but really it’s just a very strange one.”

“Stranger than nursing one of the Horde’s leaders back to health?” Vol’jin teased.

“I’d say so, believe it or not,” said Tyrathan with a rueful smile. "For one thing, this story involves me undertaking the shadow hunter trials."

"I wondered about that," Vol'jin said. "About how you came by the power to walk the realm of spirits."

"Well, that's how." After a moment's thought, he added: "You said you could feel me looking at your memories?"

Vol’jin nodded.

Tyrathan winced despite himself. “Then I believe I owe you an apology,” he said. “And an explanation. It was never my intention to pry; I was just trying to find you, but this whole shadow hunter thing is new to me, and I’ve had no one to guide me. Somehow, I stumbled onto your memories instead of your spirit.”

Vol’jin lifted a hand. “I got no reason to be upset. I did the same to you once.”

“Not exactly the same, but I see your point.”

Vol’jin nodded. Then he paused, glancing over his shoulder in the direction of the shrine. “Those Zandalari. How be they fitting into this?” 

“It’s Bwonsamdi,” said Tyrathan. “He’s the one who set me down this path, and it seems every time I ask for help he ropes a new troll into it.”

Vol’jin’s eyes tightened “You trust them?”

“They’re good people,” said Tyrathan. “Or at least Hanzabu is. I haven’t known the other two long enough to judge.” 

Vol'jin gave him an incredulous look. “You don’t know if you can trust them, yet you be working with them? Here, in the heart of troll territory?”

“I haven’t exactly had a choice.”

“Sure you did,” said Vol’jin, leaning back. “Sometimes the other choice be to walk away.”

“Not for me,” Tyrathan said, shaking his head. “Not with this. If it’s for you, I would take any risk, or pay any price. You do know that, don’t you?”

Vol’jin looked at him. “I be dead, Tyrathan, and not much can be done about that. But you still live. Your safety be worth more than mine.”

“That’s not how I see it. I have very little left to live _for_ if I can’t even help the people I love.”

Vol’jin regarded him silently for a moment. Then he gave a long sigh and reached out. He cupped the back of Tyrathan’s head and leaned in, touching their temples together. This time, Tyrathan knew how to respond, and he leaned into the contact. Vol’jin, in turn, brought his other arm up for a full embrace.

“I wish things coulda been different,” Vol'jin said quietly as he pulled back, hands resting on Tyrathan’s shoulders.

“So do I,” Tyrathan said. “I can’t help thinking how much simpler everything would have been if this,” he gestured vaguely at Vol’jin, ”was who you really were.”

Vol’jin was quiet for a long time - long enough that Tyrathan began to worry he had offended. He did not doubt that under any other circumstances, telling a troll he should’ve been born a human would be asking to be torn limb from limb by said troll. But then Vol’jin huffed out a little laugh and shook his head.

“Wouldn’t have been me.”

“No,” said Tyrathan, turning away to look out over the water. “I suppose not. If I had been a troll, then.”

“Don’t think you would have been the same, either,” Vol’jin said, following Tyrathan’s gaze to the Necropolis. “No, I be thinking it all had to happen exactly the way it did. It may be cruel, but life be like that sometimes.”

“Doesn’t mean we have to like it,” said Tyrathan.

The two of them fell into companionable silence, and Tyrathan found that if he didn't look directly at Vol'jin, he could almost pretend they were still in Pandaria. True, the surroundings were a far cry from Kun-Lai's lofty heights and bright skies, but he still had the same sense of belonging. Perhaps it had always been Vol'jin that had made him feel at home in Pandaria.

Whatever it was, it wouldn't last. It couldn't, because Vol'jin wasn't here to stay. Tyrathan felt torn between the urge to stay like this the entire night, so as to get as much out of the arrangement as he could before Vol'jin was taken from him again, and the knowledge that he would be next to useless in the morning if he didn't at least try to get some rest.

Reason won out, and Tyrathan reluctantly pushed himself up. "I guess we had better head back."

Vol'jin rose as well, yawning despite his earlier protests, and fell into step next to Tyrathan.

Just before they entered Zo'bal, Tyrathan stopped in his tracks, motioning for Vol'jin to do the same. "Would you indulge me for just a moment?"

Vol'jin arched an eyebrow, but nodded, and so Tyrathan hooked a hand behind his neck and drew him in to press their lips together.

In all honesty, it wasn’t at all how Tyrathan had imagined it. In fact, it was downright underwhelming. Vol'jin didn’t seem to know what to do, which stood to reason in retrospect; with his real body, the tusks would have been in the way. And there was the true problem: it _wasn't_ Vol'jin's body.

Tyrathan pulled back with a sigh. “No, you were right. Doesn’t feel right like this, does it?”

Vol'jin smiled ruefully, brushing a hair from Tyrathan's face. "Like I said, life be cruel."

"Death, too," said Tyrathan, and turned to enter the shrine.

Upon entering the inn, Tyrathan found everything rearranged. Hanzabu had made room for the new guests by pushing two beds together near the door for Rakera and Kaja, and another two against the far wall, with enough space between the two pairs for a solitary bed that Hanzabu occupied himself.

Tyrathan eyed the two beds meant for him and Vol'jin, and wondered whether Hanzabu knew more than he let on. Vol'jin did not comment on the beds, aside from a half-hearted grumble about how he could've slept on the floor, so Tyrathan decided to hold his tongue as well.

-

Tyrathan awoke to an empty inn. He frowned. It was one thing for one troll to slip away without waking him, but three of them, plus another one in human shape? That shouldn’t happen.

He found the others outside, gathered around the fire pit. “You could have woken me,” He complained as he joined them.

Vol’jin shook his head. “I be knowing you well enough to know that if you sleep in, you be needing the rest.”

Tyrathan made a noncommittal sound. Normally, he would have agreed with that assessment, as he’d been a light sleeper his entire life - a side effect of the healthy paranoa cultivated by all seasoned soldiers. The thing was, though, that since coming to Nazmir, he continually found himself sleeping in, and more damning still, through noises that surely should have woken him. Was he overexerting himself so badly fumbling with his new powers, or was it something about the swamp itself that lulled him into such deep sleep?

Surely it couldn’t be that he felt _safe_ out here?

“You have not missed much,” said Hanzabu. “Vol’jin here could not tell us much about what happened to him.”

“There be much amiss about my current state,” said Vol’jin. “I been trying to figure out what caused it and why, but so far, no answers. This be another mystery atop the pile.”

Tyrathan took a seat. “Do you know what the force was that I released you from?”

“No, but no doubting it be related to all the other strangeness.”

“So we cannot know the threat,” Rakera cut in. “But he says his spirit can be bolstered against such traps in the future.

Vol’jin nodded. “The only problem being, the spell be needing specific reagents.”

“Reagents we don’t have, I take it?” Tyrathan said.

“Correct,” said Hanzabu. “We could likely get them in the back markets of Dazal’alor, but obviously we can’t take him - or you - there like this. And the journey there and back would take longer than we have.”

“So what _can_ we do?”

“We go to the blood trolls,” said Rakera. From the way she smiled it was obvious that she didn’t mind doing it.

_I wonder, does she have a personal score to settle with the blood trolls, or are they just that much of a threat to the empire?_

“Not that that be settled,” Vol'jin said, extending a hand towards Rakera. "My glaive."

“No, I don’t think so,” said Rakera. “You will stay here. Even most Zandalari avoid Nazmir; it’s no place for you to be wandering around in your current state.“

“Maybe you be forgetting,” said Vol’jin. “I be dead already. I’ll be risking less than the rest of you.”

“No, you’ll be risking the entire purpose of our mission if your body expires prematurely.” She sighed. “I want you to know I mean no disrespect. I understand you were a formidable fighter in life, but this” she waved a hand at Vol’jin, “isn’t the body that fought those battles. You’re far more fragile than the enemy, which is why I really think you and your friend should stay put.”

Vol’jin cocked his head to the side. With a flick of his wrist, he conjured in the palm of his hand a dark flame. Tyrathan recognized it as the same fire that had manifested on his own hands when he’d passed his final test. Vol’jin curled his fingers in, and the flame went out. 

“Whatever else I may be right now,” he said. “I ain’t stopped being a shadow hunter. I’m coming with you.”

Rakera folded her arms, staring Vol’jin down. When this failed to cow him, she threw her arms in the air, defeated. "Who am I to deny a shadow hunter?" And that, apparently, was that on the subject.

“I’m not about to sit this one out, either,” Tyrathan cut in. “I may not be Vol’jin’s equal as a shadow hunter, but I am far from helpless.”

Vol’jin laughed. “That be one way to put it. Deadliest archer I ever met.”

Rakera did not comment, which Tyrathan interpreted to mean she was done arguing. Not that her authority extended to him or Vol’jin in the first place. In fact, Tyrathan was pretty sure that as the former Warchief of the Horde, Vol’jin could have pulled rank on the General if he wanted to. That he didn’t was a testament to his character.

The plan Rakera outlined was straightforward: There was a blood troll settlement to the west of Zo’bal that should serve their needs. The Horde had already targeted it in the past, and even the Alliance had been through. The blood trolls had also taken heavy losses all around Nazmir recently, so there were not many of them left at all. If they got lucky, Rakera told them, the village could even be abandoned, though she doubted they would be quite _so_ lucky. Their objective was to locate one of the several blood witch huts scattered around the village, and rummage through the magical reagents there. Hanzabu and Vol’jin both knew what they were looking for; the others were to handle any blood trolls that came their way in the meantime.

With these instructions, the five set out. Vol’jin was granted his glaive after all, though Rakera expressed some doubt as to whether he could wield it as effectively given his new proportions.

”Can you not kill barehanded?” Kaja asked. “I am told you could before.”

Tyrathan thought he detected a dangerous edge to her question, as though the wrong answer might have provoked an argument, or worse.

Vol’jin either did not notice that undercurrent, or chose to ignore it. “I probably could,” he said, gathering up the hem of his excessively long kilt and tucking it into his belt. “The glaive be faster, though.”

Kaja said nothing further.

Zalamar, as the blood troll village was called, was surprisingly large, made up of several buildings of varying sizes, each with a curious conical roof, as well as a number of watchtowers. One such tower faced in Zo’bal’s direction, a lone troll standing watch at the top. So, they were not lucky; the village was still inhabited. But approaching as they were from the cover of the trees, the group was still well out of the scout’s sight when Tyrathan nocked an arrow and dispatched him. The scout crumpled onto the platform, and as no commotion followed, it seemed no one in the village noticed. From the corner of his eye, Tyrathan saw Vol’jin give the Zandalari a smug look that seemed to say ‘what did I tell you?’. Tyrathan hid his own smile.

There were only a few blood trolls about, most of them congregated at the center of the village in front of a deep pit, apparently absorbed in some kind of worship. The five trespassers kept well away from that group, circling around the perimeter to a building that looked promising, with a ritual fire lit next to the door, an acrid smell wafting from it. There was also a warm glow filtering through gaps in the wall. All of this likely meant the witch doctor was home.

Hanzabu held up a hand. “I’ll take a look. Wait here,” he whispered, then vanished from sight.

There was a moment of tense silence, then a gurgle and a dull thud from inside the hut.

“Come in,” Hanzabu’s voice called through the wall. Kaja peered around the building to make sure there were no blood trolls watching, then signaled the all clear. They all moved into the hut, where they found Hanzabu standing over the corpse of a single blood troll.

“Watch the door,” Hanzabu commanded, motioning for Vol’jin to join him in rummaging through the various vials and jars within the hut.

Rakera and Kaja took positions on their side of the door, peering through worn spots in the canvas covering the doorway while Tyrathan stood a little further away, bow at the ready.

Minutes ticked by, the quiet clink and clatter of the search and Hanzabu’s quiet mutterings the only sounds in the hut. Not many sounds carried from the outside, either, save for the occasional rustle of wind.

“Is it normal for it to be this quiet in the middle of the day?” Tyrathan asked after a while.

Rakera shrugged. “Like I said, the blood trolls have taken heavy losses. It’s possible it’s just that there are so few of them left. But they are also strange and unpredictable, so we shouldn’t let our guard down.”

As if on cue, there was a sharp cry from across the village.

Kaja swore. “Someone found the scout. How’s that search going?”

“None of these are labeled!” Hanzabu snapped. “We’re going as fast as we can.”

“Are they coming this way?” Vol’jin asked.

“Not yet. Looks like they’re trying to work out where the arrow was shot from.”

Vol’jin glanced at Tyrathan. “Do you think you could get up there?” He jerked his head up at the ceiling.

Tyrathan looked up, and at once saw what Vol’jin was driving at; there was an opening in the roof, right at the top. It would make for a fantastic perch from which to snipe at any approaching enemies. He turned to study the interior wall. It was woven from what appeared to be roots or gnarled branches, looking almost like they had naturally grown into the shape of the building. This left the wall somewhat sparse, with ample potential hand- or footholds, and the ceiling had been made the same way. From the outside, scaling the building would barely be a challenge at all. From the inside, however, it would be trickier, but it shouldn’t be unmanageable.

“I can try,” Tyrathan said.

Vol’jin nodded and went back to digging through containers. Tyrathan slung his bow across his back and tested a protruding piece of root or whatever it was with a foot. The material was rigid and appeared capable of supporting his weight. He began to climb.

“Better be quick, human,” Rakera said. “Won’t be long before the entire village is alerted.”

“Noted.”

The climb proved to be less of a challenge than he’d feared. The weave of the wall and roof was loose enough that he could grab onto just about any part of it without a problem. He also discovered that by wedging his heels into the larger gaps, he could defy gravity fairly easily on the bottom of the slope. He made it to the top and through the opening before the blood trolls had taken an interest in the hut. Most of them seemed instead to be forging out into the swamp, which was good for the moment, but could spell trouble when Tyrathan and the others needed to make their escape.

A few trolls, however, were checking inside buildings. Tyrathan had his eye on one in particular that was wandering in their direction. Fortunately his vantage point atop the coned roof was high enough that the troll did not notice him. Tyrathan took aim, aware that killing this one troll would alert the rest of them to their location.

Or perhaps only to his.

“Ha!” Hanzabu’s voice cried from down below. “Found it!”

“Hear that, Tyrathan?” Vol’jin called. “Get down, we be leaving.”

“We’re about to have company,” Tyrathan called back. “I’ll draw them off. You guys run.” 

“What? Wait-”

“It’ll be fine. I’ll meet you back in Zo’bal.” He fired the arrow.

It took a few long seconds for the other blood trolls to notice one more of their number had dropped dead, but when they did, Tyrathan picked out two more, getting the attention to half a dozen others. He slid down the roof carefully, loosed a few more arrows into the group, then leapt off the roof into the muggy waters behind the hut and ran. He heard shouting behind him, and hoped the blood trolls were giving chase.

Tyrathan may not have been a native of Nazmir like these trolls were, but he’d spent enough time in the swamp to familiarize himself with this particular part of it. He leapt over roots and sidestepped puddles he knew to be deceptively deep, gratified when he heard some of his pursuers stumble over the same obstacles. It slowed them down, but not enough that he could shake them off.

In Tyrathan’s mind, he had three options: he could try to gain enough of a lead to slip into one of the many hiding places the swamp offered, he could try to stay ahead until he reached Zo’bal and the spirit guardians that kept uninvited guests away - or he could stop and face his foes. He thought he stood a fair chance against a handful of blood trolls, but there was always a risk in it. A risk he wouldn’t need to take if he could keep his lead.

Reaching the top of a small hill, Tyrathan turned to gauge distance between himself and his pursuers, and was surprised to see that rather than a handful of trolls, he was being chased by about twenty. Some of the ones that had headed out of the village must have heard the commotion and joined the chase. He shot twice into the throng, and took off again.

So much for standing his ground. Zo’bal was likely his best bet now.

A spear whizzed past, only just missing him. Tyrathan wove between trees, slipping through gaps too tight for trolls to manage, all the while trying to will his legs into moving faster. Gradually, the shrine came into view. Unfortunately, there was a stretch of open ground between him and it.

Tyrathan gathered all his remaining strength for one final sprint. He’d taken the long way around; the others had to have made it back by now. Halfway across the open area, spears and arrows began raining down upon him. He ducked his head andmade erratic turns. So close now.

Pain lanced his left hip, the old hurt rekindling from the exertion, and he stumbled. Seconds later, a barbed arrow pierced his thigh. He shouted in pain as he fell to the ground, not five steps from the walls. He clawed at the ground, trying desperately to crawl the rest of the way. He was so _close_.

There were sounds of movement from inside the wall, then a shadow passing overhead, and Vol’jin landed between Tyrathan and the blood trolls, glaive spinning. The three Zandalari emerged from the shrine as well, and Tyrathan breathed a sigh of relief. He dragged himself to the wall so he could sit up against it.

As the other three engaged the invaders, Vol’jin turned and knelt by Tyrathan.

“That be a stupid stunt you pulled,” he said, leaning down to inspect the arrow still sticking out of Tyrathan’s leg.

“I said It’d be fine,” Tyrathan grunted.

“You don’t _look_ fine to me.”

“I could be looking a lot worse,” Tyrathan said. “I admit this didn’t go exactly to plan, but if they’d realized they were dealing with more than just one human, they would have called back everyone, and we would have been facing three, four times this many in short order.” He glanced at the Zandalari. “Speaking of, you had better go help them.”

Vol’jin hesitated. His eyes flicked to the arrow, then away.

“Look, I really will be fine. For Light’s sake, go.”

Vol’jin gave him a half-hearted grin. “The Light don’t get a say in this one, manthing.” But he did pick up his glaive and turn to face the attackers.

It was a marvel, watching Vol’jin enter the fray. Tyrathan had of course seen all of it before, the two of them had faced an army together, after all, but knowing even what little what he knew now about being a shadow hunter gave him a newfound appreciation for the deftness with which Vol’jin commanded his powers. Barely a twitch of his fingers, and an opponent doubled over in pain, presenting an easy target for the glaive. A wave of the hand, and another foe seemed momentarily disoriented, allowing Vol’jin to go in with a spear-hand strike in the style of the pandaren monks.

It occurred to Tyrathan that Vol’jin was relying on his magic more than he had used to. Back in Pandaria, he had heavily favoured physical attacks, which made sense if calling upon the shadow hunter’s magic was even half as taxing for him as it was for Tyrathan.

_He’s being careful of the body._

Vol’jin must not have been entirely sure how far his temporary body’s human strength could carry him, but he knew his limits with the magic, so he used the latter strategically to make up for the body’s shortcomings. He might not have had a troll’s strength or durability, but he certainly hadn’t lost the spirit.

Tyrathan tore his attention from the fight to tend to his wound. Thanks to the barbs, the arrowhead was stuck in his flesh. He knew at once what he would have to do wouldn’t be pleasant, but at least he would be able to do it himself. He snapped the shaft off as close to the tip as he was able, took off his belt and tied it around his leg as a makeshift tourniquet to stem the blood flow, and jabbed the tip of his knife into his thigh, parallel to the arrow. It was painful, very much so, but he’d been through worse in his life. Gritting his teeth, he cut the arrowhead out, then tightened the belt and waited for the wound to mend itself.

And mend it did. The bleeding stopped within seconds, allowing him to take the belt away, and though the wound itself was taking longer to close than the cut on his hand had, Tyrathan felt confident that he’d be up and walking within the hour. He relaxed against the stone wall and looked up just in time to see the blood trolls retreat. Half a dozen of them or so lay dead on the ground, but most of them had apparently decided they were no match for three Zandalari and a shadow hunter.

Vol’jin returned to Tyrathan’s side. Seeing the arrow removed, and the resulting wound almost closed, he arched an eyebrow.

“More troll in ya than I knew,” he said.

Tyrathan smiled. “A little gift from Bwonsamdi. Help me up?”

Vol’jin took Tyrathan’s hand and hoisted him up. "I got bad news for ya, Tyrathan,” he said. “This body gonna fail sooner rather than later. I can feel the magic fading.”

"Then we need to hurry with the other spell."

“Yes,” said Vol’jin, adjusting his hold on Tyrathan, “but the spell gonna consume the body, and there be something else we have to be doing before that.”

“What is that?”

“Be easier to just show you. Here, sit down.” Vol’jin lowered Tyrathan onto one of the seats by the fire pit and crouched down in front of him. “There be so much you don’t know about the power you now have, and I ain’t got the time to be teaching you everything, but I can do this.” He held his hand out.

Tyrathan took it. 

“Now, focus.”

The world melted into shadows, just like it always did when Tyrathan delved into the spirit world, but it was more solid, somehow. Sharper. Before, this realm had always been silent for him, but now Tyrathan could hear voices whispering all around.

“This isn’t how it usually feels,” Tyrathan said.

“I figured,” Vol’jin said, and when Tyrathan looked up, he saw his friend as he was always meant to be; a troll. Tyrathan had not felt the hand clasping his change, but it now had three fingers, as it should.

“This be how it should be feeling when you call for spirits,” Vol’jin said, gesturing with his free hand. “The loa be found here, too. None will be coming now, though; they cannot hear me.”

“Still? You were able to use your magic even cut off from them?”

Vol’jin looked at him. “Listen well, Tyrathan Khort. In becoming a shadow hunter, you pledged yourself to the service of the loa. That can’t be undone. But the loa, they be capricious. They may not always answer when you call, and if you be displeasing them, they may forsake you. But the powers you earned - the Sight, the Hearing, the Voice - they can’t be taking back. A shadow hunter abandoned by the loa be lacking guidance, but never power.”

“What are you saying?”

“Favoured of the loa or not, you be not a troll,” said Vol’jin. “I do not know how the loa be wanting a human to serve them, but no doubting they gonna want something. Know that you don’t have to obey blindly. But know also that disobeying can damage your standing with them.”

“You’re telling me to be careful,” Tyrathan said. “I understand the concern, given my behaviour of late.” He smiled. “But you needn’t worry. Once I’m assured of your safety, I’ll stop taking so many risks.”

Voljin snorted. “Wish I could believe that.”

“What if I promise to check in with you before I take stupid risks? I will be able to do that like this, won’t I?”

“That be why I showed it to you,” Vol’jin said. His expression tightened momentarily. “We better be getting the spell started. This body ain’t gonna hold for much longer.”

At Vol’jin’s behest, the shadows receded and his true form faded away, leaving in its stead the false human one. Zo’bal swam back into view, as did Hanzabu, Kaja and Rakera, all three looking expectantly at the two of them.

“I am ready,” said Vol’jin.

Hanzabu nodded, bringing out a small brown jar.

“What _is_ that, anyway?” Tyrathan asked when Hanzabu unstoppered the jar.

Hanzabu tilted the jar slightly, looking inside as if he wasn’t himself entirely sure. “It’s a paste made from - well, every witch doctor has their own recipe, but usually dried herbs mixed with organic fluids.”

“Blood?”

“Most commonly, yes. The important thing is that it can be used in, er, necromantic spells,” Hanzabu coughed. “Which this technically is, even though we are not raising anyone. Just bolstering a spirit.”

“Can we get on with it?” Kaja grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Yes, yes, certainly.” Hanzabu dipped a finger into the paste. He rubbed it between forefinger and thumb for a moment, then nodded to himself and began to draw designs directly onto Vol’jin’s skin. 

Each time Hanzabu lifted his finger, the finished stroke he left behind would begin to smoulder, as though they were being branded onto the flesh. Vol’jin didn’t even twitch, though Tyrathan knew that did not necessarily mean it didn’t hurt.

It did not take long for Hanzabu to finish his work. He stepped back and Vol’jin spread his hands wide, then brought them together in a resounding _clap_. The smoulder turned into a blue glow, then a fire that engulfed him completely.

“Is that supposed to happen?” Rakera asked.

Hanzabu nodded, never taking his eyes off the column of fire.

After a minute or so, the flames receded. The human vessel was gone, but in its place stood Vol’jin’s spirit, incorporeal and golden-hued, and looking like himself once again.

“What do you know,” Kaja said to Rakera in Zandali. “It really was him.”

Hanzabu, however, gaped. “How…” he began, taking a step forward. “Something is wrong. Without a body to tether you, you shouldn’t still be here.” He circled behind Vol’jn, looking his spectral form over. “Tell me I didn’t accidentally bind you to the shrine.”

Vol’jin held up a hand. “That ain’t what happened. I think I be knowing what it is. Tyrathan, a word.” He gestured for Tyrathan fo follow him, and walked off in the direction of the Necropolis.

Tyrathan followed. Although the break in the path wasn’t underwater now, Vol’jin stopped at the edge of the collapse. He glanced back at the shrine to make sure the Zandaari were out of earshot, then nodded.

“What is it?” Tyrathan asked. “What went wrong?”

“Nothing be wrong.” Vol’jin gave Tyrathan a long look. Then he stepped forward, one arm outstretched, and pressed his palm against Tyrathan’s chest. The strange energy Tyrathan had thought had left him pulsed within him once more like a second heartbeat. “There,” he said. “What that be?”

“I don’t know,” said Tyrathan. “It’s something that came from your glaive when I used it to track you.”

Vol’jin shook his head. “It was never in the glaive. That be the last living fragment of Vol’jin Darkspear.” He removed his hand. “And it's been within you since Pandaria.”

“That’s not possible,” said Tyrathan. “I never felt it until I held the glaive.”

“You ain’t supposed to feel it unless it’s invoked. It be just a small piece of my own life that I gave to keep you alive when you be dying.”

Tyrathan stared at him. “You don’t mean... the soulbonding ritual?”

Vol’jin’s head snapped up. “You know it?”

“I know _of_ it. It forms a link between two people, doesn’t it?”

“Done properly, yes,” said Vol’jin. “But I never finished the exchange. I only gave, didn’t take. I thought the unfinished spell would be undoing itself in time.”

“Well, clearly that didn’t happen.”

“No,” said Vol’jin wonderingly. “It been waiting for completion all this time. And when you gave your blood for me, you be completing it. I ain’t bound to the shrine - I be anchored to you.”

“Oh,” Tyrathan said. “What does that mean, in practice?”

Vol’jin laughed. “It be meaning you never gonna have trouble finding me again, wherever I be. Between that and the bolstering spell, nothing gonna be able to trap me again.”

Tyrathan let out a relieved sigh. “Glad to hear it. I’m honored to be your anchor.”

Vol’jin’s incorporeal hand brushed his cheek. Tyrathan could only barely feel the touch, but it comforted him all the same.

“I’m gonna be going now,” Vol’jin said. He nodded in the direction of Zo’bal. “Tell them everything be fine now. And give Bwonsamdi my regards.” He touched his forehead to Tyrathan’s, and with that, vanished.

-

Tyrathan Khort stood on the deck of a ship, watching as Vol’dun’s coastline slowly drifted out of view. The ship that had originally borne him to Zandalar had long since returned without him, but other supply vessels still sailed and were happy enough to ferry wayward adventurers.

Tyrathan closed his eyes and turned his consciousness inward. The realm of shadows opened in front of him, a comforting sight, now that he was no longer overwhelmed by the scope of it, and knew what he sought. He reached out with confidence, and was gratified to receive an immediate answer.

It may not have been all that his heart had ever desired, but it was a sliver of happiness in a world rife with grief and disappointment, and that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished it before Shadowlands! Hope you all enjoyed the ride.
> 
> I also noticed while writing this chapter that I've made a little goof wrt the timeline of Rastakhan's death, but it would be too much of a hassle to rewrite around it, so I'm going to leave it in. What's a Warcraft story without timeline inconsistencies, anyway?


End file.
